


The Witching Hour

by Lithos_Maitreya



Series: A Witcher on Remnant [2]
Category: RWBY, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Analysis, Compare and Contrast, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-posted on SpaceBattles, Friendship, Gen, Research, as opposed to using just a weapon and ammo, basically Geralt teaches RWBY and fam to use a proper toolkit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:23:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8715616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lithos_Maitreya/pseuds/Lithos_Maitreya
Summary: Beacon's second semester begins, and its newest professor is faced with several challenges, not least of which is figuring out exactly what he's teaching. But teaching may be the least of his worries, with the forces now at work across Remnant.
A storm is brewing, and Geralt will face it as he always has-with research, preparation, and silver.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a SEQUEL. This story will stop making sense at the first line unless you have already read The Wolf in December. This story is the much-requested sequel to that story.
> 
> Where Wolf was a character study, drawing its narrative strength from the comparisons between the characters of Geralt, Team RWBY, and the Summer Rose developed therein, this is not quite the same. While the characters should still be cohesive, this story’s objective is not to flesh them out and contemplate them, but to analyze what, in a very concrete sense, they have to offer one another.
> 
> The Wolf in December is a little over 20,000 words. This, I expect, will be considerably longer at about 50,000 to 100,000 words. It begins at the outset of RWBY Volume 2, with the start of Beacon’s second term.
> 
> Some more bureaucracy at the bottom.

“Geralt,” said Ozpin, standing to greet the new professor. “Welcome. Come in.”

Geralt entered, closing the office door behind him. He glanced around the room. Each face was passingly familiar—Ironwood had greeted him when he entered Vale with Summer in tow, Qrow had come to meet him as soon as he’d been able to, once he’d heard of his teammate’s return, and Glynda and Ozpin were both his colleagues now.

He had no idea what they were all doing in the same room, though.

He turned to Ozpin. “You wanted me for something?” he asked.

Ozpin nodded gravely. “I did, yes,” he said. “After your performance in retrieving Summer, and what we know about your mode of operation, we have decided that it would be best if you were… brought in on a few less-known operations and ongoing projects.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s ‘we?’” he asked.

“You know us, Geralt,” said Glynda, her voice soft but firm. “We haven’t changed, and our agendas are one thing we _haven’t_ hidden. It’s just the details of the tasks we set that we don’t make public.”

Geralt glanced at her, then looked back at the headmaster. “All right,” he said slowly. “I’m listening.”

At that moment,  he was interrupted by the sound of the door opening again. He turned, and there was Summer, slipping into the room, and carefully shutting the door behind her.

She gave him a warm smile. “Hey, Geralt,” she said. “How are the preparations going for the class?”

“Fine,” he said. “You’re part of this?”

She nodded. “I told you Ozpin knew more about magic than anyone else,” she said, finding a spot on the wall beside Qrow and leaning against it. “This is how I found out about that.”

“Most of Remnant does not believe in any arcane force called ‘magic,’ Ozpin said quietly. “That is for the best. Magic is a great source of unease and uncertainty. There was a time when neighbors feared one another and worried that witches and worse might live among them. Such tension, at least in Remnant, can only lead to disaster.”

“The Grimm,” Geralt said darkly.

“Precisely,” Ozpin agreed with a nod.

“This… group… has operated since the Great War,” Ironwood said, watching Geralt closely, “and, we think, existed in some form for a long time before that. It’s objective is the objective of every other Huntsman—to protect Remnant and her people from the Grimm. The difference is that we know a little bit more about the tools available to _both_ sides of that conflict.”

Geralt nodded. “Like magic,” he said. “You have mages?”

“Not… exactly,” Glynda said. “You aren’t familiar with Remnant’s fairy tales, I assume?”

Geralt snorted. “Never been a fan of children’s stories,” he said evenly. “They’re usually a little too true.”

“Remnant,” Ozpin agreed grimly, “is no different. We have a story we call ‘The Four Seasons’. In it, four young women, sisters, coax a hermit out of his loneliness and solitude. In return, he gifts each of them with great power.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “And they exist, obviously,” he said.

“Correct,” Ironwood said. “The four Maidens of Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall, each powerfully magical.”

“They sterile?” Geralt asked curiously.

Ozpin blinked. “No,” he said blankly. “Why would they be?”

“Sorceresses are,” Geralt shrugged. “I wondered. Sources aren’t, though. How’s it work?”

“The powers of the Maidens are passed down,” Glynda said. “When a maiden dies, her power shifts to the last person in her thoughts— _if_ that person was a young woman.”

“And if not,” Qrow said darkly, “it goes to someone completely random who _is_.”

Geralt winced. “Yeah,” he said, “that sounds hard to keep track of. So do you know who the Maidens are now?”

Ozpin glanced at Qrow. “To some extent,” he said hesitantly. “Come with us.” He stood up. “There’s something—someone—you ought to see.”

* * *

 

“If you’re going to be teaching Huntsmen,” Summer said as he walked with her towards Beacon’s courtyard where an airship was waiting to take her back to Vale, “you’d better have your Aura unlocked.”

Geralt shrugged. “It’s a tool,” he agreed. “I’m not going to say no. How do I go about it?”

She considered him. “A person usually has to unlock it for you,” she said. “The first Huntsmen, it’s said, unlocked it for themselves by way of intense meditation and introspection. Once someone is unlocked, though, they can easily activate someone else’s.”

Geralt glanced at her. “Sounds personal.”

“It is,” Summer said quietly. “Intensely. I suggest you find someone you trust to do it for you. I know that’s a tall order with how little time you’ve been on Remnant, but it’s like you said: it’s a tool.”

Geralt stopped and turned to face her. “What’s it entail, exactly?” he asked.

“The person pushes a portion of their Aura into you,” Summer said, leaning back against the wall. “Doing so breaks some kind of mental block and allows you to access your own. The details have never been explained scientifically: some people say your Aura rejects the other person’s so strongly it breaks the bond, while others say that having someone that… intimately close quickens your soul somehow. No one really knows.”

“Is it dangerous?” Geralt asked. “Painful?”

Summer shook her head. “It takes Aura from the person doing it proportional to the pool of the one getting unlocked,” she said. “But if they don’t have enough Aura to do it safely, they can always stop without losing anything. It doesn’t hurt either person—it can leave the person doing the awakening tired, but that’s all.”

Geralt considered her for a moment. “Would you?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “I’m flattered,” she said gently. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I haven’t met many people I’d trust as far as you,” he said honestly.

Her smile widened. “Careful,” she said teasingly. “Tai might get jealous.” Then her face smoothed out again. “All right,” she said firmly. “Close your eyes.”

He did, and felt her hand press against his chest through his armor.

“For it is in sacrifice that we achieve immortality,” Summer intoned clearly. “Through this, we rise above our own deaths to live vicariously through those we have protected. Individual in scale, but infinite in impact, I relinquish your soul, and with my life, defend thee.”

There was a faint warmth, as of the kiss of sunlight, and then a snapping, somewhere deep and primal inside him, and his ears echoed with the faint howling of a wolf. Summer let him go and his eyes opened.

She was breathing just slightly more heavily, but she was smiling. “Well,” she said. “That’s that. Your Aura’s unlocked.”

He held up a hand, and tried to focus the warmth which had not left him into it. His hand seemed to shimmer slightly, as though encased in a grayish-white light, like the sun through winter clouds.

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “Personal. I see what you meant.”

She chuckled. “Each person has their own mantra,” she said, in answer to his unspoken question. “You never know yours until you unlock someone’s Aura, and then it… just comes. This is my second time.”

“Ruby was the first?” Geralt asked.

Summer nodded, looking away. “It was…” she said, stopped, and swallowed. “Thank you, Geralt,” she said thickly. “I don’t think I can ever repay you for bringing me back to them.”

Geralt studied her for a moment before giving a slow, sympathetic nod. “Glad to be of service,” he said quietly.

She smiled again. “I know,” she said.

* * *

 

“Are you taking T&T?”

The question was on the air among Beacon’s first-years. The announcement of the new class, and the hiring of the new professor, had stirred them into a frenzy, and the question was whispered among them in nearly every conversation.

The class had only had a small capacity: some twelve students, in total, and had filled up within a day of its announcement. Ruby didn’t know who the last four students were, but both Team RWBY and Team JNPR had managed to get in before it filled.

Class joined _early_. 7:00 AM was painful for the first day of class.

“Do I _have_ to?” Yang grumbled dazedly from her upped bunk.

Blake reached up and grabbed the girl’s dangling arm, pulling her partner bodily off the bed and sending her sprawling to the ground. “Yes,” she said firmly. “We’re _not_ missing Professor Geralt’s first class.”

“Oh, he’s _Professor_ Geralt now,” Yang muttered mutinously as she sat up, rubbing the spot where her head had struck the floor.

“Yes, Yang, he is,” Weiss said firmly. “And he deserves respect as such. Get _up_ , why don’t you?”

Ruby giggled sleepily, already fastening her cloak over her battledress. “Come on,” she said. “We don’t want to be late, do we?”

Ren greeted her as she helped Weiss and Blake drag Yang out of the room. He seemed to be the sole guiding force on his team; Nora was basically sleeping in his arms, and Jaune and Pyrrha were leaning heavily on one another.

“You worked with Professor Geralt last semester, didn’t you?” he asked them as they moved down the hall. “What was he like?”

“He didn’t talk much,” Blake said. “But he knows his stuff, that’s for certain.”

“I, for one, am looking forward to class,” Weiss said. “Come _on_ , Yang.”

They made it, somehow, pushing Yang through the door and following after her, Ruby staying back to help Jaune and Pyrrha.

Geralt of Rivia was kneeling in the center of the podium at the front of the room, his eyes closed, garbed in his leather and chainmail armor. His two swords were strapped to his back, alongside a crossbow. Along his chest was a belt of vials, each labeled with a different color on the lid, and about his belt were several pouches. The three rows of desks conventional to a lecture hall were mostly piled high with chairs not lowered for seating; only the front row was prepared.

Ruby glanced up at the clock on the wall. 6:54. They were a touch early.

“Is he asleep?” Jaune whispered.

Ruby half expected Geralt to speak, but he sat in perfect silence, as though Jaune was right.

“I don’t… think so?” Blake replied.

“He meditates, I think,” Weiss hazarded. “Not really sleep; he’s aware of us.”

“I… guess we should just wait for seven,” Pyrrha said with a yawn, helping the dozing Nora to a seat and taking one beside her. Jaune sat at her other side.

Ruby took a couple of steps towards their teacher. For a moment, she considered trying to speak with him. Then she shook her head and turned to her team. “Find seats,” she ordered. “Class doesn’t start for five minutes anyway.”

At that very moment, the door opened again and in walked a team of second-years; one of which Ruby recognized.

“Hey, Velvet!” she greeted, waving.

Velvet smiled. “Hi, Ruby!” she said, far too cheerfully for the early morning. “I guess you’re taking this class too?”

Ruby nodded, then glanced at the Witcher in the center of the room. “We think he’s waiting for the class to officially start,” she said. “Is this your team?”

“Yeah,” Velvet said, turning to them. “This is Fox Alistair, Yatsuhashi Daichi, and Coco Adel, our leader. Guys, teams RWBY and JNPR. I have them in history.”

Suddenly, with a rustle of disturbed leather and the _chink_ of mail-rings, Geralt stood. “Class is now in session,” he said. In one motion, he reached behind himself with his left hand and loosed a bolt from his crossbow at the desk where Nora’s head lay.

It embedded itself in the wood with a _thunk_ , and she started up with a snort of “Pancakes!”

“Anyone who’s asleep should fix that,” he said. “Anyone who’s standing should do the same.”

In silence, Velvet and her team found seats.

Geralt sighed. “I know the subject of this course wasn’t explained in a lot of detail,” he began. “That’s because even I’m not sure what it’s about. But in general terms, I’m going to teach you about expanding your toolkit. Any questions about that before we start?”

Ruby raised her hand. Geralt gave her a nod in silence.

“What do you mean by ‘toolkit,’ Professor?” she asked.

Geralt grimaced. “Call me Geralt, please,” he said. “And I guess that’s a good question. Here’s one for you: what do you bring when you’re going out to kill Grimm?”

Ruby blinked, then considered the question. “I guess I bring Crescent Rose, a few magazines of ammo, and a magazine each of the primary elemental Dust rounds,” she answered.

Geralt nodded. “Then that’s your toolkit,” he said. “It’s all of the things you bring to do your job. A technician’s toolkit might be a box, where he keeps everything from screwdrivers to hammers. A scribe’s might be a pack of unused paper, maybe a blank book, pens and ink, and so on.”

“Now, consider the technician,” he said, turning away from them to walk around behind his desk. “Say this technician’s toolkit is a set of screwdrivers. That’s all he brings to his job, every day, and it works, most of the time.”

He turned back to face them. “One day,” he said, “this technician comes across a nail he has to hammer in. But all he has are screwdrivers. Sure, he can hold the strut and hammer it in with the handle, but it’d be a lot easier with a mallet.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure a lot of you are thinking, ‘well, that technician was an idiot: of _course_ he’s going to need a mallet, he should have brought one to begin with.’ Right?”

He looked around the room. After a moment, there was a general murmur of assent. Ruby didn’t join in; nor did the rest of her team. Having seen the man work, she had a feeling she knew where this was going.

“Well,” Geralt said, “I’ve gotta say, I feel much the same way about _your_ toolkits.”

That brought a couple of students up short. Coco looked actively offended, Pyrrha and Jaune looked surprised.

“You go out to fight the diverse and badly-understood Creatures of Grimm,” he said, “with only a weapon, usually with both a blade and a gun, and the rounds to use it.” He began to slip one vial and then another out of their pockets on the belt on his chest, laying each, one by one, on his desk before him. “Sure, you _can_ kill any given Grimm with just an edge and some bullets. Hell, you can do it with just a conventional sword. But it could be so much easier if you had the right tools for the job.”

He placed the last vial on the desk and began to unclip pouches from his belt, laying them in a neat order beside the vials. “That,” he continued, “is what this class is about. For one hour, three times a week, I’m going to be teaching you how to expand the number of tools you have access to. I’ll be giving you some of my tools, but I’ll also be teaching you how to recognize what tools might be useful.”

“Any other questions, before we get started?”

There was silence.

“Good,” Geralt said, drawing his two swords, one at a time, and laying them across his desk. He took out the crossbow and laid it down beside them, and withdrew from his side a miniature quiver of bolts and placed it alongside. “Now,” he said, gesturing at the table strewn with various vials, pouches, and weapons in perfect order. “This is my toolkit. I’m going to explain each part of it. Anyone have something they want to start with?”

Jaune raised his hand. Geralt nodded at him.

“Uh, Professor,” he faltered, uncertain. “Why the two swords?”

“ _Geralt_ ,” the Witcher corrected firmly. “And this one,” he raised the first, with a square guard, “is steel; it’s intended for humans and other nonmagical enemies. _This_ one,” he replaced the first and raised the second, with an angled guard, “is silver; magical creatures are allergic to silver, so I use it against them.”

Coco chuckled. “Sorry, _magical creatures_?” she asked sardonically. “You mean Grimm? Pretty sure they’re not allergic to silver.”

Geralt closed his eyes for a moment before looking over at the second-year. “I’d hoped to get there later,” he said, “but I know your type; you won’t trust a word I say until I prove I know what I’m talking about. Fine. Get down here.”

Coco blinked, then shrugged, stood up, and strolled easily past her teammates and down to the center of the room.

“You’re armed?” Geralt asked.

Coco nodded and held up her handbag. “This baby’s all I’ve ever needed,” she said.

Geralt nodded. “Hit me, then,” he said, shortly. “I’m unarmed. Try and hit me.”

Coco cocked her head. “I thought you were all about using tools?” she asked dryly.

Geralt snorted. “Magic is a tool,” he said, and up came his left hand, his fingers shifting in a strange pattern. There was a _whumph_ of released air and Coco was thrust backwards, hitting the desk behind her with a sharp _crack_ as her head hit Velvet’s workspace. The faunus girl yelped and fell backwards, only to be caught by the arm by Yatsuhashi.

Coco picked herself up, blinking at Geralt. “Was that your Semblance?” she asked as she recovered.

Geralt snorted. “Don’t know my Semblance,” he said. “I’ve only had my Aura unlocked for about four weeks. No, this is a skill, not an ability.”

Coco shifted her grip on her handbag, a slight, excited smirk spreading across her face, but Geralt shook his head. “I have access to your files,” he said. “Not in the mood to get the room shredded day one. If you can’t keep it contained, we can go a few rounds in the arena later, between your classes. For now, though, sit back down, and let’s move on.

Coco pouted at him for a moment, before relenting and stalking back to her seat.

Geralt sighed and returned to his spot behind the desk. “So, magical enemies,” he said. “Since we’re on the topic, I’ll just give you a quick primer. They exist, my job as a Witcher is to fight them, just like yours is to fight the Grimm. That’s why my toolkit is so diverse; they’re more diverse than Grimm are. But, as Team RWBY can attest, just because you’re not Witchers doesn’t mean you’ll never encounter them.” His eyes sought Ruby’s. “Nor does it mean they can’t change your life for the worse.”

Ruby swallowed.

Geralt’s gaze left her and scanned the room. “Any other questions?”

“What kind of explosives do you use?” Nora asked excitedly.

“Well,” Geralt said, fingers skimming over the pouches. “Your team saw the Moon Dust bomb in action, at the end of last semester. That one doesn’t do a lot by way of damage; instead it scatters silver slivers all over the place. Stops any kind of magical transformation until anything in the blast shakes off the silver.”

Coco raised her hand. Geralt sighed. “It’s the magic thing, isn’t it?” he asked her.

“Well, yeah,” she said dryly. “Magic doesn’t exist.”

Geralt massaged his temples. “At some point it’s impossible to prove that,” he said, “because ‘magic’ is just a name. I’m not a scholar, and I don’t really know what defines it. All I know is that there’s something that a lot of the things I hunt, and a lot of the people I work with, use. I use it for my Signs. Dimeritium nullifies it, silver prevents certain uses. You can call it what you want, but it’s _not_ Aura. Dimeritium and silver do not nullify Semblances, or Aura shielding. Keep that in mind.”

Coco shrugged. “Fair enough, I guess,” she said breezily. “I hope you can show us that it works, sometime.”

“I could easily slip on a dimeritium shackle,” Geralt told her. “It’d prevent me from casting Aard, like I did to push you earlier. But you wouldn’t really know that I wasn’t doing it deliberately. I’ll see if I can’t get a demonstration.”

His fingers plucked up another pouch. “Moving on,” he said. “Grapeshot is the bread-and-butter grenade. Just pure fragmentation of a silver casing. Damages monsters and humans alike.”

He moved on, introducing one grenade after another. Samum, Dancing Star, Dimeritium bombs, Dragon’s Dream, Northern Wind, and Devil’s Puffball. Each unique.

“I use each of those against different enemies,” he said. “Sometimes I use a few in combination. The Dragon’s Dream and Dancing Star bombs are an obvious pairing; amplify the blast from Dancing Star. Another good one is combining Northern Wind with Devil’s Puffball and Samum: if I can just hit them with the first one, I’m guaranteed a solid hit with both of the others.”

Ruby found she was taking notes; had been for a while. She’d jotted down the names and functions of each of the grenades, and was now noting the combinations as he rattled them off.

“That’s bombs,” Geralt said, laying the last pouch carefully back on his desk. “What next?”

“Your crossbow,” Ren said. “Is there anything to it beyond a ranged option?”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “Would you believe the crossbow was the last addition to the kit?” he asked dryly. “Seems like one hell of an oversight. Witchers don’t traditionally carry them, though—at least, not in the Wolf School, which is mine, or the Griffin School, which was the one closest to it in style. They weren’t ever common, even in the others. But this hand crossbow’s my best option to get a solid hit on an enemy in the air or underwater.

“That being said, it’s not quite as simple as that,” Geralt added, picking up his quiver. “This thing has compartments—you see how the fletchings are bunched and color-coded? That’s because I keep a few different kinds of bolts on me at all times. Steel-tipped ones for humans, silver-tipped for monsters, same as the swords. Then I also keep a few explosive-tipped ones, some broadheads for when I want to apply a real wound, blunts for when a bludgeon will work better than a sharp tip. Then there’s the precision bolts, which are designed to pierce armor.”

His fingers lingered over two more sets of fletchings. “These two are weird,” he said, “and I don’t have a lot of either. This one is baited at the tip—the tip is dipped in lard or some other kind of meat product, and the feathers are Griffin. When I loose that one, it draws monsters to wherever it lands. Useful if I’m in over my head, but useless against humans, faunus, or Grimm.”

Then he produced one of the last type of bolt, which had an odd red sheen to the tip and shaft. “This one is target-seeking,” he said. “Dunno how it works, really hard to get. All I know is that if I shoot it at an enemy that’s flying to teleporting, it _will_ hit that enemy unless that enemy manages to dodge it for something like two minutes. Can be useful, but rare enough that I don’t use it often.”

He slipped the bolt back into the quiver. “Seems like that leaves us to alchemy,” he said, putting down the quiver. “But that’ll have to wait—” he was interrupted by the chiming of the bell, “—until next time. No homework, obviously. I’ll see you all in two days. See me if you have any questions, and Coco, if you want that fight, just let me know.”

* * *

 

And then the day was over and classes were finished. Team RWBY convened back in their room.

“So…” Yang said leadingly. “ _Classes_. Interesting, huh?”

Blake nodded, already reclining on her bed and reaching for a book. “I thought Professor Port’s class was particularly fascinating,” she said idly.

Ruby giggled. Yang looked less amused.

“Port can stuff it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “ _Geralt_. What did you all think?”

“It was certainly intriguing,” Weiss said. “We really don’t have enough to judge the class by yet, however.”

“Those were a _lot_ of different bombs,” Ruby said, sitting down on her partner’s bed. “I wonder if he’ll teach us how to make them?”

“ _I_ wonder why he uses a crossbow instead of a pistol,” Blake said, looking at them all over her book. “Surely a firearm would be more effective?”

“They don’t have guns in his world, remember?” Yang said, and then blinked. “Holy crap, did I just say that in a casual conversation?”

Weiss snorted and sat down beside Ruby. “It _is_ still a little… difficult to swallow, isn’t it?” she asked. “Our newest teacher is from another _world_. That’s certainly not something I ever expected to have to try to explain to my father.”

“He’s good, though,” Yang said, nudging Blake’s legs. The faunus curled them up obligingly so Yang could sit, resting her arm on her partner’s knees. “ _Really_ good. Doesn’t fight like any Huntsman I’ve ever seen, but you saw how he and Ciri dealt with that monster.”

“Yeah,” Ruby agreed. “I’m hoping Coco actually does challenge him, so we can see how he fights against a person.”

“I wonder if she has a chance,” Blake mused. “He fights people, yes, but has he ever fought a Huntress?”

Yang considered this. “Point,” she allowed. “Now I’m curious, too.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” Ruby called.

Jaune stuck his head in. “Coco and Professor Geralt are about to fight!” he said breathlessly. “In the arena!”

Ruby jumped up. “All right, team!” she said. “Let’s go see this!”

* * *

 

Geralt looked up at the display, where two Aura bars were now displayed alongside photographs of himself and his student. Not that she _was_ his student yet, nor would she be unless he won here.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Geralt?” Glynda asked him quietly. She’d agreed to arbitrate the contest in her capacity as combat instructor. “It’s not generally… policy for professors to accept their student’s challenges.”

Geralt shrugged. “She’s not going to learn anything from me unless she thinks I know enough to teach,” he replied in a similarly low voice. “This is faster than finding and capturing a monster to show her.” _And it might be fun,_ he thought, considering the girl, stretching idly, across the arena. Her posture was relaxed, but there was an anticipatory smile on her lips. _She seems to think it will be._

Glynda sighed. “Very well,” she said. “Good luck to you.”

“Shouldn’t need it,” Geralt said dryly, “but thanks.”

Glynda withdrew as Coco entered the arena, handbag swinging in her grip.

“Hey, Prof,” she said with a grin. “Ready to lose?”

His eyes narrowed. “ _Geralt_.”

Her grin became a smirk. “Win and we’ll talk.”

Geralt rolled his neck on his shoulders, loosening the latent tension in his muscles. “Sure,” he said. “Maybe then you’ll be less of an entitled brat.”

Coco’s face hardened behind her sunglasses. “Oh, now you’re asking for it.”

“Ready?” Glynda called from above.

Geralt drew his steel sword and held it at his side in his right hand, even has he stretched the fingers of his left in preparation for casting.

“Begin!” Glynda declared.

Geralt’s left hand was already coming out and up, his little finger raised, as Coco unfolded her handbag into some sort of massive multi-barrel gun.

His hand shifted; the small finger lowering as the index finger rose, and a pale sign appeared in the air before him. _Axii_.

Coco started, the air around her head growing blurry. Her eyes glazed over and she staggered slightly.

Geralt rushed her, picked her up bodily, and threw her out of the arena.

“Match,” Glynda called, clearly stifling amusement. “Geralt wins by ring out.”

Coco was shaking her head and glaring at him. “That,” she growled, “was not a win.”

Geralt shrugged. “You want to go again,” he said flatly, “I can do this all day.”

“I’ll be ready for that this time,” Coco said, standing up and stalking back into the field.

Geralt turned and returned to his side.

Glynda sighed audibly. “Very well. Ready?”

Geralt’s finger’s twitched in preparation for a sign.

_With a weapon like that,_ he thought, _her best call would be to keep me at range. She can do that with a normal enemy fairly easily, since getting close basically means being perforated. I could try to shield myself with Aura, but Quen will do just as well, as long as the shield survives a few rounds._

“Begin!” Glynda ordered.

Geralt’s little finger dropped; his ring and middle fingers conjoined, and his thumb was tucked into his palm. _Quen._ The golden flare appeared around him even as he began to charge.

Coco was unfolding her weapon again. She began to fire when he’d closed half the distance. He felt the bullets impact on his shield in quick succession—each Dust-propelled round taking a chunk out of the defense. But Quen, trained for years to withstand even the heaviest strikes, held just long enough, collapsing even as he brought the steel whipping around towards Coco’s shoulder.

The Huntress in training was forced to bring her weapon up to parry, and from there, it was Geralt’s fight. He beat her back, one strike after another, carefully feinting any proper parries and sidestepping any counters, even as he waited for his body to recover in preparation for another sign. He wasn’t getting any hits in, but he didn’t need to.

Coco, however was getting frustrated, as he saw by her increasingly frenzied shoves in melee. Eventually, one left her exposed, leaning forward in a great push which he had dodged, and then he struck, bringing his sword around and only barely remembering to strike her with the flat of it, hard, in the back. She yelped, and stumbled forward, and he struck her again and again in a flurry, always with the flat of the blade, until at length she managed to get her weapon up to defend herself. His sword glanced off her guard, bouncing to his right.

But his left hand came up, middle finger lowered and all digits splayed, and then went out like the beating of a drum. _Aard._

Coco fell back, her guard dropping again, and he beat her down again, one rapid strike after another, the flat of his blade ringing out as it hit her legs, sides, and cheeks.

Eventually she recovered and wildly swung with her weapon, shifting it back to a more compact form for melee, but he caught her wrist in his left hand and bashed her with his right shoulder, pushing her back and opening her again.

This time, though, he just raised his leg and kicked her in the belly, sending her sprawling.

“Match!” Glynda said firmly. “Geralt wins by ring out.”

Geralt breathed deeply for a moment before striding forward and offering the girl a hand. “That enough of a win for you?”

She looked up at him, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses, before a grin touched her lips. “Yeah,” she said breathlessly, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet. “Yeah, I’ll take that. Thanks for the match... Pro—Geralt.”

He grinned back. “Anytime,” he said—an acknowledgement and a promise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a couple of hours late, sorry about that. Kinda... forgot I had an AO3 mirror for a bit there. I was distracted, sue me.

“Where you headed?” Geralt asked as he walked across Beacon’s courtyard with Qrow.

“Anima,” Qrow said, voice rough with lack of sleep. It was early in the morning, the clouds just starting to pink in the pre-dawn light. The students were all asleep and, for some reason, the Huntsman had decided that now was the best time to ship out. “I need to follow a lead on… well. Family matters.”

Geralt nodded. “I won’t pry,” he assured the man. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Qrow muttered. “I could use a bit of that.”

Geralt stopped and Qrow passed him, setting his foot onto the bullhead that would take him down to Vale. “Qrow,” the Witcher said quickly, before the man could close the door. “Get in touch with me if you find any contracts out there, would you?”

Qrow raised his eyebrow. “Contracts?” he asked wryly. “Doubt anyone’s going to be posting notices for a Witcher around Mistral.”

“Probably not,” Geralt agreed, “but they might need one anyway, and I’m hoping to take the kids out on a… field trip later in the term. Might be educational. Just let me know if you hear about something.”

Qrow nodded. “Sounds good,” he agreed. “Later, Geralt.”

“See you, Qrow,” Geralt said, and watched as the Bullhead sealed, blocking the Huntsman from view. He turned away as it took off and made his way back towards the school. He had a class to prepare.

* * *

 

“Alchemy,” Geralt said, his vials arrayed before him in a neat row of colored glassware, “is the most… scholarly part of my job. Every other piece of my kit I leave to a professional to do: I leave my weapons to a smith when they need maintenance, I leave my armor to an armorer, but I brew my own formulae. That’s partly because good alchemists are hard as hell to come by, where I come from, and partly because some of the formulae Witchers use are either too secret or too toxic to trust to most people.”

Ruby raised her hand. Geralt pointed at her. “Ruby?”

“ _You don’t maintain your own weapons?_ ” she burst out.

A smirk crossed his face. “I was hoping to talk to you about weapons, actually,” he said. “I could use a few upgrades, and I’m told you know your way around the forge. But that can wait—see me after class, please.”

Ruby nodded firmly.

“Good,” Geralt said, and gestured over his decanters. “There are three basic types of formulae I use,” he said. “Oils, potions, and decoctions. Oils are the ones you should care most about—most of my potions are toxic to humans, and probably faunus, and all the decoctions are poisonous even to me—they’d probably kill any of you outright.”

Velvet raised her hand. Geralt gave her a nod.

“You said they’re toxic to humans,” she said blankly. “Aren’t you one?”

Geralt raised his hand and tilted it side to side in a so-so gesture. “Mostly,” he said. “Witchers are mutants. We’re pumped full of poisons and worse as children in what’s called the Trial of the Grasses. We come out either Witchers or dead.”

There was a deathly silence. Geralt sighed. “The results of the Trial,” he continued more steadily, “leave me, among other things, with these eyes,” he gestured at his own face and the slitted pupils that stared out at the students, “an extended lifespan, a more… robust constitution all around, and unable to have children.”

“So you have staying power _and_ there’s no risk of unwanted surprises?” Coco said with a coy grin on her lips. Beside her, Fox rolled his eyes.

Geralt cocked an eyebrow at her. “You don’t want to go here with me,” he said lightly. “Because, yes, it _does_ imply exactly what you’re thinking, and I’ve had almost a century to… explore.”

Coco actually flushed and looked down.

Geralt grinned and returned to his potions. “I won’t go over _every_ decoction,” he said, his hand hovering over the largest set of bottles, each with some icon labeled on the glass. “There’s too many, and a lot of them are really… esoteric. In general, they give me a long-term boost of some kind—enhanced strength, decreased bloodflow so I won’t bleed as much, higher pain threshold, et cetera—but at the cost that they fill my system with a _whole_ lot of poison.”

He palmed one bottle and pulled out the stopper. “When I say poison,” he said darkly, “I want you to understand what I mean. So. Bottoms up.”

He put the bottle to his lips and swallowed the fluid in a single gulp. Grimacing he set it back down. “Shouldn’t take too long,” he said roughly. “Keep watching.”

Even as he spoke, his veins and arteries began to darken and the skin of his face paled, the dark blue and red lines standing starkly against the alabaster. The scar which ran down the left side of his face, across his eye, seemed almost to reopen, growing cherry red and bordered with sickly blue. The skin around his eyes darkened as with exhaustion or bruising.

He gritted his teeth. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I _need_ to not do that. Ech.”

“That… can’t be healthy,” Yang said hesitantly.

“Oh, it _isn’t_ ,” Geralt assured her. “It’s entirely possible that each time I do this it might shorten my lifespan. But Witchers are long-lived, and they can really help in a fight. So even though I’m not giving you any of my decoctions, let this be a lesson.” He stoppered the empty bottle. “Sometimes, a good tool demands a sacrifice. That doesn’t make it a bad tool—it makes it a situational one.”

He pushed his decoctions over to one side of the desk. “I don’t use decoctions often,” he said. “Only when I’m up against something I have no business fighting in the first place, really. If I can take an enemy without them, I do. But sometimes, you _really_ need that extra edge. Keep in mind that sometimes a risky or dangerous tool can give you that edge.”

“And what if the cost is too high?” Yatsuhashi asked stiffly.

Geralt shrugged. “Then it’s too high,” he said. “But not every cost is, every time.”

The Witcher’s fingers hovered over the second set of liquors. “Potions,” he said, “are more short-term than decoctions. They usually do something for anywhere from twenty seconds to ten minutes at the most. Like decoctions, these are poisonous—even to me, if a lot less so. I won’t be giving these formulae to you.”

He picked up a fluted bottle, filled with an orange liquid. “Case in point,” he said. “This is Swallow, the single most important potion in my kit. This thing knits up my wounds like a surgeon, even in the middle of a fight. But it’s toxic, internally, and worse to humans. I once encountered a woman—comatose, and dying from internal bleeding in her cranial cavity. She was being tended to by her village alchemist, and they’d done all they could; all they could do now was wait for her to die.”

Ruby swallowed. Beside her, Weiss looked slightly sick, as did several of the others.

“The herbalist asked if I could help,” he said. “I warned her of the possibility of side effects, and she left the choice up to me. I decided to at least try, so I gave the woman a dose of Swallow.”

He set the potion down. “It worked,” he said slowly. “The woman recovered from the internal bleeding. Swallow _did_ what it was supposed to do. But it had side effects. As far as I know, that woman never opened her eyes again—Swallow left her comatose for life.”

Ruby gritted her teeth. “That’s horrible,” Blake murmured from the seat across from Yang, only just audible to Ruby.

Geralt, having heard it, nodded grimly. “It is,” he agreed, “so you’re not getting any of these formulae either. But there might be analogous tools available to you, someday, so I’m going to run you through the set.”

He picked up a fluted flask with a bright green liquid inside. “This is Thunderbolt,” he said.

More potions were introduced. White Raffard’s Decoction, Tawny Owl, Golden Oriole, Cat, Blizzard, Full Moon, Petri’s Philter, Killer Whale, White Honey, and Maribor’s Forest. One vial—a large, blocky thing brimming with a sickly black fluid, he avoided until last.

“This,” he said as he lifted it, grimacing, “is Black Blood. Not something I expect any of you to ever need an analogue for, but if you’re curious, it makes my blood poisonous to monsters that drink it—vampires, necrophages, and the—”

“Wait,” said Jaune, starting. “Vampires?”

Geralt nodded looking at him. “Yeah,” he said. “Do their legends survive, around here? Not every monster’s do.”

“Uh, yeah,” Jaune said nervously. “They, um, they exist?”

Geralt nodded. “They do,” he said. “They’re sapient—the higher varieties, at least—and are really just people, in a lot of ways. Some’re bad—I’ve fought a fair few of those—and some aren’t. A good friend of mine is one of those; might just visit next time Ciri drops by.”

Jaune blinked. “…Oh,” he said blankly.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “The lesson on vampires is later, kid,” he said. “Don’t worry, it’s coming.”

He put down Black Blood. “Now, oils are a lot more straightforward than decoctions or potions,” he said, glancing at the clock, “so I’ll just give an overview. They’re the simplest tool I have, and they’re also one of the ones I use most. I apply a blade oil to my steel or silver sword, and it becomes poisonous to a particular type of enemy. Hanged Man’s Venom, for instance,” he said, raising one flask in green, “is toxic to humanoids. I haven’t tried with faunus, but it should work.” He considered for a moment. “Beast oil might work on Faunus too. I’ll have to test, when I go up against a faunus.”

Ren raised his hands. Geralt gestured for him to speak. “How is it,” he asked, “that you’ve seemingly never fought a faunus before?”

“I come from… a _long_ way away,” Geralt said slowly. “It’s a little complicated. Suffice to say, there weren’t any faunus back there. This is why you haven’t heard of Witchers or a lot of the monsters in the bestiary. At some point, I’ll explain the details, but not yet. Things are a little… unstable right now.”

Ren narrowed his eyes, but nodded, satisfied.

Yatsuhashi raised his hand then, looking at Velvet. “Professor—” he said.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Geralt corrected sharply.

Yatsuhashi’s face hardened. “Why should faunus be affected by something called _beast oil_?” he asked stiffly.

Geralt sighed. “Because, short version,” he said, “I know next to nothing about faunus biology. Beast oil works on most non-human animals which aren’t monsters—allergic to silver. Faunus have animal traits, but does that make them _actually_ part animal? I’ve no idea. That’s why I need to test it.”

“So it’s not…” Velvet said hesitantly. “…Not because we’re…”

“Kid,” Geralt said dryly, “I just told you one of my best friends is a _vampire_. _I’m_ a mutant human treated worse than the monsters I hunt in some parts of the world. I think I know better than to judge you by an extra pair of ears.”

Velvet looked down embarrassedly. Yatsuhashi looked back at her, then at Geralt, and then returned his gaze to his notes.

Geralt looked back at the oils. “Moving on,” he said, “I keep a blade oil for every type of monster in the bestiary. A blade oil is a small thing, and it doesn’t make a huge difference all at once, but it costs nothing to use but a bit of prep time, and little things like that can make or break a fight. Not everything has to be complex or situational—keep your eyes open for simple, elegant solutions.”

He nodded at one—a sickly black thing on the edge of the table. “I’m currently developing an oil for the Grimm,” he said. “Once I get it to work, I’ll make sure Beacon is stocked.”

He started putting bottles back into their places on the strap across his chest. “We’re running low on time,” he said, glancing at the clock on the wall, “but we have just enough time for me to cover the Signs in basic. There are seven Signs in the Witcher’s… spellbook, I guess. Don’t ask how they work right now, because I still have to test some things about how they interact with Aura. The Signs are as follows:”

Geralt withdrew to the chalkboard and drew one sigil after another on the black rectangle. As he completed each pictogram, he recited. “Aard, Igni, Yrden, Quen, Axii, Somne, and Heliotrop. Coco, I used three of them on you, and Team RWBY saw me use one more at the end of last semester.”

He turned back to them. “A demonstration,” he said, producing a small rubber ball from a pocket. “Heliotrop I can’t easily demonstrate—it only works on energy attacks, I guess, and I don’t want to risk blowing something up with Dust. But, for the others: watch.” He tossed the ball into the air before him with his right hand, even as his left moved intricately. “ _Aard!_ ”

The ball flew away from him as if pushed by Pyrrha’s strongest magnetism, bouncing hard off of the back wall behind the students even as they started. Jaune ducked as though to avoid the projectile.

Geralt caught the ball deftly in one hand, then tossed it to Nora. “I want you,” he said, “to throw that thing as hard as you can at me, when I give the word. Give me just a minute to recover.”

Nora smiled wickedly.

After a moment, Geralt sighed. “All right,” he said. “When you’re ready.”

Nora’s arm wound back and let fly, hard, with the ball. Geralt’s arm came up, his fingers splayed into an odd shape, with a speed matched only by trained Huntsmen. “ _Quen!_ ”

The ball glanced off of the golden barrier that appeared around Geralt in a sphere even as he winced, as if the wind were knocked out of him. “Signs take a lot out of me,” he said. “I recover fast, though. All right. Who caught it?”

Yatsuhashi held up the ball. Geralt held up a hand and the large student tossed the orb back to him.  “The other five signs need a different demonstration,” the Witcher said. “First.” He glanced over at his desk, and at a candle that had sat idle for the whole of the class. His fingers moved again. “ _Igni_.”

There was a burst of flame, both between his fingers and on the wick, and the candle was alight.

“For the other three, I need a volunteer,” Geralt said. “Probably not Coco—she’s been on the receiving end of one of these already.”

Ruby stood up. Geralt nodded at her. “You’re actually a good fit for one of these,” he said. “I’m curious to see if it works. Come on down, Ruby.”

She padded down the stairs to join him.

“First,” he said, nodding towards the doorway. “Go to that side of the room, please. I’m going to have you run across the room towards the opposite wall, as fast as you can, without your semblance.”

Ruby nodded and jogged over to the door, then turned back.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Geralt said.

Ruby ran, but Geralt was falling into a kneel. “ _Yrden!_ ”

She entered the circle of glyphs just as it appeared and it was like the air had become molasses. She found she could not force her limbs to move faster than a crawl. Geralt, however, had no such difficulty, simply padding over to her and watching with some amusement as she strained to move faster.

He paced beside her until she eventually broke out of the circle, reached the wall, and glared at him. “That was mean,” she said.

He chuckled. “Yrden is a trap,” he said. “Has a few uses, but that’s the big one. Now, I want to try that with your Semblance, but it can wait. First.” He raised his left hand before she could say a word and moved his fingers. “ _Axii._ ”

The world seemed to fade away into a fog. Ruby couldn’t think, couldn’t remember what she was doing there, where she was, how she’d come to be in this place.

She felt a gentle shove to her shoulder, but was somehow unsteady enough that even the slight push sent her stumbling back into the wall. She blinked, shook her head, and the world came back into focus.

“Axii,” Geralt said darkly, “is the most… questionable… of my Signs. As you saw, it can really muddle your mind. If I put everything into it, though? I can make someone think the sky is green, or that I _did_ pay for the jewelry I stole… or that his teammate, beside him, is his mortal enemy.”

Ruby stared at him, aghast. “That’s horrible,” she whispered.

Geralt nodded. “But useful,” he said shortly. “A tool is a tool. What matters is how you use it. On that topic, my least-used Sign.” He turned to the class at large. “Yang,” he said after a moment. “Your head can take a hit, right?”

Yang grinned. “You know it,” she said cockily.

“Good,” Geralt said, raising his hand in another gesture. “ _Somne_.”

Yang’s head thudded to the table, snoring.

“Puts people out like a light,” Geralt said cheerfully, even as Blake and a few others around the class giggled slightly. “She should wake up in a few minutes, in time for her next class.” He turned to Ruby. “You can go back to your seat,” he told her. “Thanks for the help.”

Ruby nodded and scampered back.

“Now, homework,” he said. “You have five days for this assignment, and it shouldn’t take you that long. I want each of you to find _something_ —it can be anything at all—that you could use as a viable tool to add to your kit, and to write up a scenario in which it would be useful. You’ll be presenting your tools and your reasoning in class next Monday. Bonus points if you can provide a recording or an account of a spar in which you used your new tool. Someone tell Yang.”

The bell rang just as he finished speaking. “Class dismissed,” he said, slipping his last decoction away.

Ruby stood up and slid past Weiss’ seat into the walkway. She padded down the steps to the stage again.

Geralt gave her a nod. “How long have you got before your next class?” he asked.

Ruby shrugged. “Two hours,” she said. “I need to get breakfast in the dining hall at some point, though.”

Geralt nodded. “You go eat,” he said. “I need to flush this decoction out of my system anyway. When are you free for a few hours?”

Ruby considered. “I finish classes at three,” she said. “Are you busy then?”

Geralt shook his head. “No,” he replied. “That sounds fine. Where should I meet you for the weapon work, Beacon’s foundry?”

Ruby winced. “Beacon doesn’t have the best forge,” she said, “but I guess it’s easier than going all the way to Vale. We can start there this afternoon, and if you need something better we can meet in Vale over the weekend?”

Geralt nodded. “Sure,” he said. “We can test your Semblance with Yrden then, too. Thanks, Ruby.”

“Don’t mention it,” she smiled, and returned to her team.

* * *

 

“Does anyone else feel like Geralt’s class is rather… aimless?” Weiss asked tentatively over dinner.

Pyrrha, sitting with her team across from RWBY, nodded. A faint frown graced her lips. “He’s spent the first two lectures on nothing but his own toolkit,” she said. “And while it has been enlightening, it’s not especially useful to us, is it? It’s not as though we can use most of his tools.”

“I think it’s leading into something,” Blake offered. “He’s gone through all of it, now. He’s probably got something in mind for Friday.”

Ruby nodded. “I think you’re right,” she said to Blake. “Besides, it’s good to know at least what kinds of tools he uses just so that we can see how broad his kit is.” She chuckled wryly. “Has anyone else started feeling… I don’t know, _inadequate_ , in his class?”

Jaune raised his hand. “But, to be fair,” he added, “it’s me.”

Pyrrha nudged him. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jaune,” she said gently. “You’ve improved by leaps and bounds, you know that.”

“Yeah,” Jaune sighed. “Still playing catch-up, though.”

“Jaune,” Ruby said gently, “we saw Geralt in action last semester, remember? Believe me—we’re _all_ playing catch-up.”

“On that topic,” Yang said grimly, “Remind me to get some silver shells for Ember Celica, all right? I _really_ never want to be caught by one of those… things without some.”

“Same here,” Blake murmured with a faint shudder. “We should modify all our weapons, probably. Weiss, how would you go about adding silver to Myrtenaster?”

“I suppose I could just coat the blade,” Weiss said doubtfully. “It seems a waste, though.”

“Silver dust?” Ruby suggested. “You could use an extra chamber of silver dust in the cartridge like you use the, um, actual Dust now.”

Weiss nodded. “That could work.”

“Geralt and I are going to meet at a forge in Vale on Saturday,” Ruby said. “We can make it a team thing and modify our weapons then?”

“Is it really important?” Pyrrha asked. “I’ve never heard of a Huntsman with silver weapons before.”

Ruby tilted her head back and forth unhappily. “I don’t think most people encounter, well, _monsters_ ,” she said. “They’re rare. But… well. Mom did.”

Yang put her hand on her shoulder. “And they’re not like the Grimm,” she said darkly. “I couldn’t have just punched my way through that thing Geralt fought.”

“Precisely,” Weiss said. “I’d certainly rather _have_ silver, and never need it, than need it and not have it.”

“True,” Ren agreed. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a couple of silver magazines for Stormflower.”

“Maybe I can get Geralt to give me the formula for his silver bombs?” Nora wondered aloud.

* * *

 

“So, people have been going missing?” Summer asked, nimbly avoiding a stumbling drunk as he ambled past them on his way out of the bar.

“Yeah,” said the innkeeper as he wiped down a filthy mug with an even filthier cloth. “Parents don’t let their kids even a few trees into the woods anymore because of it. It’s probably Grimm; a few corpses been found. Glad a Huntress happened by. Think you can do something about it?”

“Maybe,” Summer hedged. “Need to know a little more, first. You said it started… when?”

The man frowned, considering. “A few months back, I guess,” he said slowly. “I think it started with… yeah, my friend Maurice’s… brother-in-law, was it? Went into the woods to chop some firewood, didn’t come back. Search party found his body, looked like it’d been torn apart by something.”

“Any idea what _kind_ of something?” Summer asked, leaning forward on the bar.

The man shook his head. Then stopped. “Well,” he considered. “Garnalls—he’s a friend of mine, was in the search party—told me a bit. I think he said something about little Nevermores? You might want to ask him. He lives three houses down from here, towards the river.”

Summer nodded and pushed off the stained wood of the bar. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll do that. So long.”

She left the bar and inhaled deeply of the night air. This far north of Vale proper, in Forever Fall, the breeze tasted clean and cool, untouched by the pollution of Dust processing and mechanization. A faint scent of fruit permeated the air, heralding the coming of autumn and the harvest.

Her silver eyes scanned the houses around the tavern, picked out the one the barman had mentioned. She crossed over to it, Pinprick swaying in its sheath at her side. She passed over the well-kept garden and knocked twice at the door.

A woman opened it—pretty, if not young. A little older than Summer. (Or, well, perhaps not anymore. Twelve years was a bit of a jump, even if she hadn’t seemed to age.)

“Hi,” she said with a smile. “I’m looking for a Mr. Garnalls? I was told he lived here.”

The woman blinked at her. “You a Huntress?” she asked, eyeing the hilt of Pinprick, poking out from under Summer’s white cloak. “Here after the Grimm in the woods?”

Summer nodded. “Yep,” she said soothingly. “I just need to talk to Garnalls about the body he found. He was in the search party that found the first man, wasn’t he?”

“That he was,” the woman said, nodding, then turned. “Garn, Huntress here to speak to you! Says it’s about poor old Az.”

There were footsteps in the hall and a man emerged, from a door, light streaming out from behind him. He shut that door behind him and approached, his brown eyes wide to see in the half-light. “Huntress?” he asked. “Is that so? Good to see one of you finally came by. You can take care of this, can’t you?”

“Well, that’s my job,” Summer said. “So, this… Az. He was the first one to die?”

“He’s how we found out there were Grimm in the forest, yeah,” said Garnells, nodding. “When I found him, he’d been… ugh. It’s hard to talk about it.” He shuddered.

“I need to know what kind of Grimm I might be up against,” Summer said gently. “Beowolves leave different kinds of wounds than, say, a King Taijitu would. I’m sorry but… can you describe his injuries?”

Garnells swallowed. “Sure, sure,” he said gruffly. “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt because you didn’t know what you were facing. Let me see. He, uh, he’d been scratched up pretty bad. Little cuts, like from a razor. At least, the bits that hadn’t been… mauled. Looked like he’d be stabbed, too—or more like holes had been bored into him by a drill.”

“How deep?” Summer asked, expecting the answer.

“About half an inch, at most,” the man said in confirmation.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling gently. “You’ve been very helpful. I won’t keep you any longer… and I’m sorry for making you relive that.”

He shook his head. “Just… get rid of those monsters, please,” he said fervently.

“I’ll do everything I can,” she promised, and left.

_Small scratches, and half-inch stab wounds?_ That sounded like the work of small Nevermores… except that small Nevermores weren’t hostile except in groups with larger Grimm, and none of the larger Grimm would have been content to wait out in a forest for this long without either attacking or moving on. Something didn’t add up.

Something was squatting in a forest near a settlement in northern Forever Fall, killing people with small Nevermores or, more likely, birds of some other kind. And she had a strong feeling it wasn’t a Grimm of any sort at all.

She smiled and made her way back towards the tavern and the room she’d rented for the night. She’d call Geralt in the morning.

* * *

 

“How go the experiments, Geralt?” Ozpin asked, slipping into the Witcher’s office quietly.

The pre-dawn grey light streamed in through the window, barely enough to see by. Geralt had augmented it with a lamp on his desk, which beamed light onto the notes strewn across the surface. He sat hunched over them, occasionally glancing over at a counter by the wall where rested several bowls of various herbs and fluids.

The Witcher shook his head. “Not that well,” he said. “Grimm dissolve, which makes it hard to test anything with their flesh. I’ll need live specimens at some point, preferably something larger than a minor Nevermore.”

“That can be arranged, I’m sure,” Ozpin said easily. “We can make it a field trip. I’m sure you’ve heard of the biannual excursion into Forever Fall for sap.”

“Heard about how it almost ended in catastrophe last time,” Geralt said, glancing at the headmaster.

“Oh, it often does,” Ozpin chuckled. “It’s a good way to ease the students into the tension of the job, I find. We’ve yet to have anything worse than a few broken bones, easily set.”

Geralt shook his head. “Maybe I’ll take one or more of the teams out to catch some Grimm later,” he said. “No promises. I—”

His scroll, issued to him before the semester began, chimed an incoming call from its resting place on the surface of the desk beside the notes. Geralt palmed it and accepted the call.

“Summer,” he greeted the white-hooded woman on the other end as the visual connected.

“Geralt,” she said, smiling. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he said. “Still can’t make any progress of the Grimm oil, though. You?”

“I found something,” she said, her smile fading slightly. “I’m in a little town near a thicker part of the Forever Fall forests, and people have been disappearing. I don’t think it’s a Grimm.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?” he asked.

“The bodies have been scratched and pecked apart, as well as being torn to bits by bigger things,” she said slowly. “But… well, a body turned up in the middle of the night, so I got to see it firsthand. Whatever jaws bit into this were too small to be a Beowolf, and the birds were too small to be any Grimm but a minor Nevermore. Except Minor Nevermores aren’t usually aggressive.”

Geralts eyes shut. “Wolves and crows,” he said quietly.

“You know what it is?” Summer asked.

“I do,” he said darkly. “I’ve got plans to go to the forge with your daughter on Saturday, Summer, but I’ll head out after that.”

“Can this wait a week?” Ozpin asked quickly.

Geralt glanced at him. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I’d like you to take a team with you,” the headmaster said simply. “And they should be allowed to know in advance.”

Geralt stared at him for a moment. “That thing’s a leshen,” he said slowly. “One of the most dangerous monsters in the bestiary. Are you insane?”

“They’ll have you,” Ozpin said. “Order them to hang back. It will be valuable experience.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “True,” he acknowledged. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” Ozpin said.

Geralt turned back to Summer. “Keep people out of those woods,” he said firmly. “And _don’t go in yourself_. Leshens usually can’t be killed conventionally. I’ll let you know soon when I plan to come.”

Summer nodded. “I’ll set up a perimeter,” she promised. “See you soon, Geralt.”

“Later, Summer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are appreciated but not demanded. The Spacebattles forum is great for detailed discussion if you want to talk to someone besides me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That didn't take long. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

“Geralt,” Ozpin greeted. Glynda and Ironwood each just gave him a nod.

Geralt nodded back. “Ozpin,” he said. “Anything new?”

“Nothing yet,” Ironwood said, glancing back at Ozpin. “My sentries report no unusual activity at the expected White Fang gathering places.”

Ozpin nodded. “Which means our enemies either are not involved with the White Fang, which I doubt,” he said, “or they’re successfully diverting our attention to unimportant locations.”

“Should we increase police presence around the city?” Ironwood suggested. “At the least it’ll make it harder for them to move their Dust around.”

Glynda rolled her eyes. “And in turn make the entire populace of Vale significantly more nervous,” she said dryly. “Do you _want_ the Grimm to invade, James?”

“I seriously doubt a slight increase in police presence will cause that much of a stir,” Ironwood protested.

“You forget, James,” said Ozpin gravely, “that we are not in Atlas or Mantle now. Here in Vale, the populace values their freedom—freedom, not just from oppression, but from surveillance. The police is not merely a protective force, here: it is a symbol of authority from above. That makes it a powerful tool, but also a double-edged one.”

“And it’s even worse because the ‘police’ you’d be using is Atlesian military,” Geralt added, coming forward. “Novigrad didn’t like it when Redanian troops started patrolling their streets, back home. Doubt Vale would react any better to having a foreign military occupying their city.”

“Precisely,” Ozpin said. “It gives the wrong impression on several levels. It certainly would help to stop our enemies, I agree.”

“But at the cost of making the city of Vale consider _us_ , and especially _you_ , James, to be theirs,” Glynda finished.

Ironwood sighed. “I understand,” he said. “It seems like a very… inefficient system, however. Why charge the police with so much tension? It just keeps them from being useful more often.”

Ozpin inclined his head. “Indeed,” he said, “but there is a benefit. When your police takes someone into custody, all it tells Atlas’ people is that that person is an enemy of the state. When _mine_ take someone, as long as they still trust me… it tells the people of Vale that that person is _wrong_.”

“Which can be a hell of a tool,” Geralt said, studying Ozpin warily.

“Indeed,” Ozpin agreed, “which is why I am careful to always act in the interests of Vale and Remnant as a whole, because if for a moment I do not, that trust crumbles.”

There was a silence for a time, as the group digested this.

“Ah, Geralt,” said Ozpin, reaching into the drawer under his desk. “Since you are unfamiliar with Remnant’s culture, and because of the particular nature of our conflict, I thought it best to assign you a bit of reading.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “A history text?” he asked.

“Not… quite,” said Ozpin, producing a book.

_Fairy Tales for Young People_ , the cover read.

Geralt snorted. “That makes sense,” he agreed. “Fair enough.” He took the book. “I’ll run through it.”

“Thank you,” Ozpin said. “Let me know if you have any questions about any of the stories.”

“Will do,” Geralt confirmed. “Any word from Qrow?”

Ozpin shook his head. “He is likely at sea by now,” he said.

“What’s he up to, Oz?” Ironwood asked. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

“And he has a right to that,” Ozpin said clearly. “It’s a personal affair, which nonetheless has bearing on our movements.”

Glynda looked uncomfortable, Geralt noticed, but she remained silent.

“He will contact us the moment he has any information,” Ozpin said firmly. “In the meantime, we must trust him to be prudent. I certainly do.”

Ironwood sighed. “You know I do too,” he said. “It’s just… oh, never mind.”

“You’re used to commanding soldiers,” Ozpin said gently. “You must remember, James: Qrow is not a soldier. He is a Huntsman, and accustomed to independence. His Semblance demands it, regardless.”

Geralt frowned. “His Semblance?”

Glynda blinked. “He didn’t tell you?” she asked.

“He likely lacked the time,” Ozpin said. “You should know if you’re going to be working with him. Qrow’s Semblance is that he brings misfortune to those around him—enemies and friends alike. It’s a large part of why he operates alone so often.”

Geralt shook his head. “If anyone has bad luck, it’s him,” he said dryly, “with a Semblance like that.”

Ozpin nodded gravely. “Indeed,” he said. “it does, however, make him an effective combatant and infiltrator. It is, after all, _unlucky_ for secrets to be uttered within earshot of a spy.”

Geralt nodded. “Makes sense,” he said. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Moving on from Qrow,” Ironwood said, “Summer’s active again, isn’t she?”

Ozpin nodded. “She is currently securing a village in Forever Fall,” he said. “A monster—one of Geralt’s kind—is terrorizing the area. I believe Geralt plans to take one of the student teams to clear it out.”

“Against my better judgement,” muttered Geralt. “I’m taking CFVY, I think. They’ve got more experience than the others, if only against Grimm.”

“That seems sensible,” Ozpin agreed. “When do you expect to leave?”

“Next weekend, if all goes well,” Geralt said. “Hopefully the kids will actually have some tools to deal with a leshen by then, and I’ll be a bit better-outfitted too.”

“I shall tell Summer as much,” Ozpin said. “Keep me updated, please.”

“Will do,” Geralt promised.

* * *

 

When Ruby and her team filed into Geralt’s classroom on Friday, the man was half-seated on the lip of his desk, his eyes downcast, thinking. He looked up at their entrance. “Team RWBY,” he said. “You’re first to arrive.”

“Something bothering you, Geralt?” Yang asked. “You’re usually meditating or whatever you do.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, studying them. “Talk about it once the others get here. Don’t worry about it. Got some news yesterday.”

Ruby frowned, considering him, before nodding and making for her seat. “I was wondering,” she said as she sat down, “would just adding silver bullets to our set count for the tool we need for Monday?”

Geralt shook his head. “Too straightforward,” he said. “We’re going to be silvering all your weapons at some point in the next few weeks, anyway. No, it should be something more tactical. It should give you a solution to a situation beyond just shooting, slashing, stabbing, and punching your way out.”

Ruby nodded. “I had a feeling,” she said. “Just wanted to confirm.”

Geralt nodded. “Good that you did,” he said. “I’ll make sure the whole class knows, once they arrive.”

At that moment, the door opened and CFVY entered, Coco leading her team into their seats.

“You’re up early,” she said to Geralt.

His lips twitched upward. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Something keeping you _up_?” Coco asked, waggling her eyebrows.

Geralt shook his head and didn’t reply. Velvet blushed, and Fox rolled his eyes. Yatsuhashi just seemed to ignore the whole affair as he sat stoically in his seat.

“So what are we talking about today?” Blake asked the Witcher. “We’ve gone over your toolkit now.”

Geralt nodded. “We’ll be starting to talk about yours in detail now,” he said. “Diagnosing holes in your strategies, that sort of thing. Might help you pick out tools for Monday.”

And then the door opened again and there was JNPR. Geralt gave them a nod.

“Now everyone’s here,” he said. “Got an announcement to make. Yesterday a Huntress in Forever Fall came across a town where people were disappearing in a nearby forest. Townspeople thought it was a pack of Grimm. It wasn’t.”

Ruby leaned in. _This_ was unexpected.

“Ozpin and Glynda have managed to print copies of my bestiary,” Geralt said, nodding at a pile of ring-bound booklets on his desk. “Each of you should come up and take one. I’ll tell you which page to turn to once you have them.”

The students stood as one and surged forward in an orderly ripple, each of the twelve taking one of the booklets. Ruby thumbed through hers as she returned to her seats, wincing at the illustrated monstrosities.

There were several major sections: Necrophages, Specters, Insectoids, Relicts, and others. In each were a set of different strange creatures.

Geralt called her attention back. “Turn to the section on Relicts,” he said. “Specifically, leshens.”

Ruby obeyed. The creature drawn on the page was a strange, almost eldritch monstrosity of long, spindly limbs and a great antlered skull for a head, or perhaps a helmet.

Beside the image was a block of descriptive text. _Leshens dwell in primeval woods_ , she read. _Fiercely territorial creatures, they hunt with stealth and cunning as their only companions. They use their inborn magic to control the plants and animals within their territory—and so when stalking them, half the battle is merely getting near enough to strike. Leshens old enough to earn the appellation ‘ancient’ wield advanced skills and tactics that make them particularly dangerous._

Below this were noted a few words under the heading _Weaknesses_ : _Dimeritium bomb_ , _Igni_ , and _Dancing Star_.

“The Huntress contacted me when she realized it wasn’t a Grimm,” Geralt said once the students had finished reading. “The bodies the villagers had found had been set on by wolves and crows—both favorite allies of leshens. The back page of the bestiary entry has detailed instructions on how to take out a leshen for good, but let me sum up for now.

“A leshen sets up totems—usually three, sometimes more—around its territory. Sometimes, if it’s only just moved in, you can catch it before it finishes, but this one’s been there for weeks. You need to destroy all of its totems and then kill the body. That prevents it from resurrecting itself.”

“What happens if you fail to destroy the totems?” Pyrrha asked.

Geralt nodded. “Good question,” he said. “It uses its animal thralls in a ritual which allows it to possess a tree or parts of one, effectively resurrecting it.When I encounter a leshen way out in the wilderness I sometimes don’t bother hunting down its totems just because it’s not a huge threat to people out there and it can take a long time to find them. This one’s right near a town, and so we’ll need to go hunting.”

“Wait,” Weiss said quickly. “We? You’re taking us with you?”

“I’m taking one team,” Geralt said shortly. “Ozpin’s request. RWBY, you’ve already seen a me fight a nightwraith, so I think I’ll take one of the other teams. Since leshens are one of the most dangerous monsters in the bestiary, I’d rather take CFVY, if that’s all right. You four have a year of experience on JNPR.”

Coco nodded. “Sounds good,” she said, all business. “Anything we should get ready before we leave?”

“I plan to have us out of here by the end of next Friday,” Geralt said. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be back before classes start again on Monday. By then, I hope to have all four of you outfitted with silvered weapons and a basic grenade kit. Talk to me after class about getting outfitted.”

“Will do,” Coco agreed.

“And JNPR, don’t worry,” Geralt said, glancing over the four remaining students. “I’m pretty sure we’ll get another contract in this semester.”

Jaune nodded nervously. “Oh, joy,” he said.

“Anyway,” Geralt said, standing properly. “We’ve got forty minutes left; let’s get to work. First, Ruby asked before class whether just silvering your weapons counted for the new tool assignment. The answer is no. You need something that’ll actually have a unique function.”

Ren raised his hand. Geralt gave him a nod. “What about Nora?” he asked. “Would your grapeshot qualify, even if she just uses it with Magnhild like her other grenades?”

Geralt shook his head. “The whole idea is to get you to have something you use when your usual strategies don’t work,” he said, “regardless of the silver/steel issue.”

Ren nodded and lowered his hand.

Geralt glanced around the class. “Now,” he said. “I’ll bet some of you are wondering why we’ve spent so long on my toolkit. There’re a few reasons. The first one is that I wanted to make a point. Ideally, _everyone_ ’s toolkit should take two hours to go over in some detail. That’s where you should be trying to get.

He shrugged. “That’s not my best reason,” he admitted, “but it’s the one that’s important for today. “Now, starting today, we’re going to be going over each of your existing toolkits and talking about what holes you need to patch up. Anyone who goes today will have an advantage for the assignment on Monday, because you’ll know where to look, but if you don’t get a chance in class you can see me later today.

“So,” he said, looking around. “Who wants to start?”

Pyrrha raised her hand first. He gave her a nod. “Come on up, Pyrrha,” he said.

She did, her red sash trailing behind her.

“You use a sword and shield, right?” Geralt asked.

The champion fighter nodded. “Miló and Akoúo̱, yes,” she said. “Miló also has javelin and rifle forms.”

Geralt nodded slowly. “You happen to have them with you?” he asked.

Pyrrha shook her head. “We’re not expected to carry our weapons around the school,” she said. “Only to combat classes.”

“Might want to start considering this a combat class,” Geralt said. “Anyway, the rifle. How’s it work?”

“Semi-automatic,” Pyrrha said promptly. “twelve-round magazine. I use it for middle- to long-range accurate fire. It lacks the penetrating power of a sniper rifle but has a higher fire-rate and uses sights instead of a scope.”

“So you use the sword for close-quarters, the spear for reach, the gun for range, and the shield for defense?” Geralt asked.

“The javelin and shield are both also thrown weapons,” Pyrrha said. “I… well, my Semblance.”

“Right,” Geralt agreed. “You don’t have too much trouble getting them back, I guess. Well, you’ve got most ranges covered, so that’s a good start. No explosives or area attacks?”

Pyrrha considered this. “I could use dust rounds,” she said doubtfully. “I don’t carry them, as a rule.”

“That could serve for long-range explosives,” Geralt agreed. “And you usually don’t _want_ explosives at short range. How about traversal? I know that’s a big thing for Huntsmen; getting from one side of the battlefield to another.”

Pyrrha shrugged. “I usually just rely on acrobatics and my Semblance,” she said.

“Might want to find a system that doesn’t rely on your Aura,” Geralt said. “Never know when you might need that. How about verticality? Huntsmen like playing with height. You can probably float using your Semblance, but have you got other options besides climbing?”

Pyrrha shook her head slowly. “Not in particular,” she said. “It’s never come up.”

“I saw the footage of your initiation,” Geralt said. “If you want to see it, let me know after class. Team RWBY played with verticality a lot while your team was busy with the Deathstalker. Might want to take some cues from them.”

Pyrrha nodded. “Thank you, Pr—Geralt,” she said gratefully. “I have a few ideas.”

Geralt nodded. “No problem. Who’s next?”

* * *

 

“It’s quite unlike Geralt to ask _me_ to follow _him_ ,” Yennefer said amusedly, looking fingering the spines of the books on her shelves. “I find I mind a great deal less than I expected I would.”

“So you’ll come?” Ciri asked.

“Of course,” Yennefer chuckled. “I said I was going to drop politics, did I not?”

Ciri raised her eyebrows. “And have you?” she asked.

“Of course not,” said Yennefer. “But politics are the same everywhere. I’m sure I can hold my own in… Vale, you said?”

Ciri nodded. “It’s a nice place,” she defended. “Even if the Grimm are a bit of a problem.”

“It sounds like they’re rather more of a problem than that,” Yennefer said lightly. “Then again, so was the Wild Hunt, and we handled that fairly well.”

“So, what do you need to pack?” Ciri asked.

“That rather depends on how we shall be traveling,” Yennefer said, leaning on her bookshelf and studying her adoptive daughter. “Have you managed to transport vehicles, or only yourself and others with you? How light must I pack?”

Ciri winced. “It’ll take a great deal out of me,” she said slowly, “but I suppose I could take a full carriage’s worth of baggage.”

“Splendid,” said Yennefer, clapping her hands. “Then I shall pack my megascope, a few packages of key books, clothes enough to tide me over in the event that I cannot have more made for some time… Yes, that should do. Come, Ciri, help me.”

Ciri rolled her eyes. “A _few packages_ of key books?” she asked. “I should think you plan to bring your entire library!”

“Not all of it,” the Sorceress defended lightly. “Only, say, two thirds. Come, help me fold and pack my megascope. Are you contacting anyone else to about Visiting Geralt?”

“I’ve already contacted Zoltan and Dandelion,” Ciri said. “They’d both like to come. I’m trying to track down Regis, now. He’s somewhere in Nilfgaard, but I’ve no idea where.”

Yennefer nodded. “Then perhaps we shouldn’t pack the megascope quite yet,” she said dryly, replacing the equipment she’d been dismantling. “It may be of service in finding him. Oh, I never asked: whatever happened to Avellac’h?”

Ciri blinked. “He went back to Tir ná Lia,” she said blankly. “Why?”

“Shame,” Yennefer mused. “I should have liked to interrogate him about those world-gates he used. It would be useful to have an open channel between this world and Remnant. I’m sure I can work it out, given time.”

* * *

 

Ruby had come to the conclusion that Beacon’s forge was insufficient _very_ quickly on Thursday. They’d taken the time to test Yrden with her semblance—yes, it did slow her—but beyond that they’d simply decided to meet on Saturday at a larger forge in Vale.

Ruby had asked him if she could invite others to join them. Geralt had agreed.

Somehow, he hadn’t expected this.

His entire class turned to greet him as he entered the forge. Ruby was beaming proudly at him, as if to say, _look at all the people!_

He sighed. “We don’t have class on Saturdays,” he said.

Yang snorted. “Yeah,” she said, “but we all want silvered weapons, so we thought we’d come by.”

Geralt shook his head. “Was planning on silvering your weapons a couple weeks down the line,” he said. “Good on you for taking the initiative, I guess. Glad you’re here, CFVY—help you get ready for the leshen.”

Coco nodded. “That’s the idea,” she said. “Anything we should bring besides silver rounds and burn dust?”

Garalt considered this. “Well, any tools you come up with for Monday will be good to bring too,” he said. “I’m going to be focused on patching up my own kit, though, so I can’t help too much today.”

“You heard him,” Ruby told the posse imperiously. “Geralt and I have work to do! All of you go get some silver and get started!”

Geralt made his way over to the girl in red as the group dispersed somewhat, each student making for their own workbench. “How’s this work?” he asked. “Don’t you have to pay for the silver?”

“Beacon students have free weapon maintenance,” she said. “I doubt the forge will be happy with us for using this much silver, though.”

Geralt shrugged. “No choice,” he said. “I’ll tell Ozpin to get them to stock up.”

Ruby nodded, then studied him. “So,” she said. “What did you want to make?”

He pulled out his crossbow and laid it out on her workbench. “I like this thing, don’t get me wrong,” he said, “but a good pistol would do better, I think.”

She nodded. “A hand cannon, basically,” she said. “Unless you want to make the switch to a revolving cylinder or an automatic?”

Geralt shook his head. “One-round stopping power is more my style,” he said.

“All right,” she said. “We can just modify basic Atlesian blueprints pretty easily. Silver and conventional rounds, or just silver?”

“How hard will it be for me to swap magazines?” Geralt asked.

Ruby considered. “Not that hard,” she said. “You already do a lot of swapping—” she stopped, blinked, and gasped. “ _Oh_ I have an idea!”

The workbench came equipped with a screen used to view three-dimensional blueprints. Ruby pulled up one of a pistol and started fiddling with it, talking all the while. “We can use mech-shift tech,” she said rapidly. “Instead of shifting between different forms, your gun can shift between different types of ammo! That way, you never have to actually swap magazines—you can just shift the chamber to the right magazine! Sort of like Myrtenaster.”

Geralt nodded. “Makes sense,” he said, although it didn’t. “Can I get three magazines?”

“Conventional, sliver, and dust?” Ruby asked, still messing with the blueprint.

Geralt nodded. “Exactly.”

“I could give you multiple magazine receptors for different Dust types,” Ruby offered. “The weapon would need maintenance more often, though.”

Geralt considered this. “Whatever you think is best,” he said. “In general, I probably won’t need more than one type of dust quickly enough to make it worth it, don’t you think?”

Ruby thought about this, tilting her head from side to side even as she brought parts from other weapons into the pistol’s blueprint. “Yeah, probably,” she said. “Space is an issue, too. I couldn’t give you more than about three rounds of each type if I went with all the different types of Dust.”

Geralt nodded. “I also need a verticality option,” he said. “Any ideas?”

“Ooh,” Ruby said, pursing her lips. “I use my Semblance and recoil for that, but you don’t want that kind of recoil on a pistol. Hmm.”

“Maybe a grappling hook?” Geralt suggested. “I don’t want to just carry one around, though.”

“Ooh!” Ruby said excitedly. “ _Four_ firing modes!”

Geralt blinked at her. “What?” he asked.

“Four configurations,” Ruby explained patiently, her fingers flying over the tablet. “Steel, silver, dust, and _grapple_. I can give you a speargun configuration on this thing, with a barbed harpoon!”

Geralt huffed interestedly. “Not a bad idea,” he said. “Would it hold my weight?”

Ruby nodded. “You’ll have to augment your arm with aura to hold up your whole body reliably with just your grip on the handle,” she warned, “But that’s normal. Blake has to do that all the time to use the ribbon on Gambol Shroud.”

“I can do that,” Geralt agreed. “Need to train, but I can do that.”

“Then that’s the plan,” Ruby agreed, her fingers dancing over the screen. “What caliber do you want?”

Geralt blinked at her. “That’s bullet size, I know that,” he said. “Dunno how to decide, though. Talk me through it.”

“Right, this is your first gun,” Ruby said apologetically. “Okay, so there’s a limit to how big I can make your magazines and firing chamber, right? So the biggest rounds I can account for are .50, like Crescent Rose, and if I go with that you’re only going to have about six rounds a mag. Or we can go as far down as something like .22, which would have a lot less stopping power but I could fit twice as many rounds in or more. Or even something tiny like .10, but I wouldn’t recommend that since you don’t want an automatic.”

Geralt nodded. “Go with .50,” he said.

She nodded, fiddling with the blueprint. “Now you have to decide bullet shape,” she said. “I won’t go into all the design details. We’ve got blunts, which are less tapered and can really do a number on anything not armored. There’s armor-piercing, which is almost sharp and will puncture armor like it’s not even there, but won’t do nearly as much damage to the target once it gets through. We’ve also got HV rounds—that stands for high velocity, by the way—which uses increased rifling to proper the bullet faster and make it go farther. I use those for Crescent Rose—it’s better at longer range, and can be as devastating as the others at close range, but it doesn’t have the penetrating power of the armor-piercers or the destructive power of the blunts.”

Geralt thought about this. “Armor’s always an issue with some monsters,” he said. “Insectoids and the like. Go with armor-piercing.”

“Got it,” Ruby said, tapping out a command into the program. “Now, you’re going to be using this one-handed a lot. Do you want me to account for two-handed grip in case you need to make a more stable shot? It’ll mean slightly less accuracy in your one-handed shots because of the extra size, but with a two-handed shot you’ll be able to snipe.”

Geralt thought about that. “How much less accuracy, one-handed?”

Ruby lifted one hand away from the screen and tilted it from side to side in a so-so gesture. “Not huge,” she said. “You’ll still be able to, say, core an apple at a hundred yards or so. You might lose about… thirty yards of really pinpoint accuracy?”

Geralt considered this. “Is there a way you can give me a… detachable stock?” he asked. “Or something like that?”

“Ooh,” Ruby said excitedly. “No need! You’re the best, Geralt!”

He blinked at her. “How so?” he asked.

“You keep coming up with these great uses for mech-shift!” she said happily. “It’ll be a little heavier, but you can swap it between one-handed and two-handed firing modes! Because the extra length will be folded in, you shouldn’t lose accuracy to leverage!”

He nodded. “Sounds good.”

“All right,” Ruby said, tapping out a few more tweaks to the blueprint and then leaning back. “This thing is going to be a lot of fun,” she said happily. “Now we have to decide cosmetics.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “Color?” he asked

She nodded. “White’s your color, right?”

Geralt nodded. “I guess,” he said. “They called me the White Wolf, so…”

“Right,” she nodded, tapping out a command. “That’ll be the primary color. How about secondary? Gold-yellow, to match your eyes? Or silver?”

“Silver,” Geralt said.

She nodded and fiddled with the screen. “Want any carvings or engravings?” she asked. “General Ironwood has a pistol like this, and his is hand-carved. The forge can’t carve it for you, but you can add engravings to the blueprint.”

Geralt considered that, looking at the wire-frame that would soon become the newest addition to his arsenal. “The weapon’s name,” he said quietly. “Along both sides of the barrel.”

Ruby looked over at him. “What _is_ its name?” she asked.

“Vesemir,” Geralt replied.

“Well,” said Ruby, tapping one last command and removing the blueprint from the screen. “Vesemir should be done in about three days. Now, I’ve got to go make some silver rounds for Crescent Rose.”

Geralt nodded. “Thanks, Ruby.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, smiling at him before darting off.

Geralt glanced at the screen where, recently, the blueprint to his new weapon had been displayed. Honestly, he had no idea what it was going to look like in reality, yet. But if Crescent Rose was any indication, Ruby knew her way around weapon design.

* * *

 

“Oz,” Geralt said, entering the Headmaster’s office. ‘Had a question about one of the fairy tales.”

Ozpin leaned forward over his desk. “Indeed?” he asked. “Which one?”

“ _The Witch’s Three Wishes_ ,” said Geralt, coming forward and putting the book on Ozpin’s desk. “That one have any basis in reality?”

Ozpin pursed his lips. “That is one of the few I have been quite unable to verify in any detail,” he said. “I _believe_ the titular Witch to be derived from Salem, our final enemy. Her final punishment, however, does not seem to have happened. And of course, the Man in the Mirror is hard to believe, at best.”

“He exists,” said Geralt flatly.

Ozpin blinked once, slowly. “Does he really?” he said quietly.

Geralt nodded.

“Oh, my.”

“He roped me into collecting one of his debts, once,” Geralt said quietly. “In the end, I managed to beat him at his own game. Wouldn’t want to try again, though.”

“Well,” Ozpin said quietly. “If ever he… comes to collect Salem’s debt, I assure you—you should feel no need to save _her_.”

“So you think she really did…?”

“Yes,” Ozpin said immediately. “Yes, I do. And I can only hope that the Man in the Mirror _does_ come to collect, one of these days.”

Geralt sighed. “I have a feeling,” he said quietly, “that if you’re _hoping_ for him to win at anything, it’s because you’re missing something. No idea what, though.”

“Well, this is unsettling news, at any rate,” Ozpin said. “I will look through Remnant’s history and legends; perhaps I can verify his appearance in other places.”

“Let me know if you do,” Geralt said darkly. “If I never meet him again it’ll be _way_ too soon.”

* * *

 

“Hey, are they new?” Blake asked at breakfast on Sunday, nodding over at a trio of students in black and white uniforms.

Ruby glanced over. They were two girls and one boy. One, the leader based on her mien, had long black hair and liquid golden eyes, a shade more orange than Geralt’s. The other two were a girl, maybe slightly older than Yang, with long mint-green hair in pigtails and a young man with silver hair.

“Yeah, I guess,” she said. “Those aren’t beacon uniforms, either. I wonder where they came from?”

“They look like Haven Academy uniforms to me,” Blake said slowly. “I spent some time in Mistral before coming to Vale.”

“They’re here rather early, then,” Weiss said thoughtfully. “The rest of the Haven visitors for the tournament haven’t arrived yet.”

Ruby nodded slowly. “They probably came to Vale early for some other reason,” she said. “I hope they’re not too lonely.”

The black-haired woman met her considering eyes across the dining hall. For a moment, silver and gold met and held.

Ruby looked away. “Don’t stare,” she told her teammates. “That’s rude.”

Yang rolled her eyes. “ _Fine_ ,” she grumbled, looking back at Blake. “Anyway, Blake, you’ve got that, uh, meeting to infiltrate tonight, right?”

Blake nodded. “Around six, yes,” she said. “If you three could just… be around, that’d be great.”

“In case things go wrong,” Yang agreed. “Right. I’ll be downtown anyway, following my lead. Weiss, Ruby, think you two can head downtown after finishing up at the CCT?”

Weiss nodded. “Of course,” she said. “I hope it all goes well, though. And doesn’t go too late—we have to be up early for Geralt’s class tomorrow, and I need to put my new propellant through its paces before then.”

“Oh, do you want to record spars?” Blake asked. “I don’t know how important the extra credit is, but…”

“…But there’s no reason not to try for it,” Weiss finished, nodding. “Certainly. We can do that after breakfast, and then Ruby and I will go to the CCT after lunch.”

“We can meet in Vale for dinner, and then Blake and I will head out to our things after that,” Yang said. “Sounds like a plan!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phearo at spacebattles has generously provided concept art for Vesemir. The post in question is at the following address (with spaces removed): https:// forums . spacebattles . com /posts/30417829/


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the spacebattles thread for their assistance. In addition to Phearo's sketch, Borley has made a three-dimensional model of Vesemir, which can be viewed at the thread as well. The link is: forums (dot) spacebattles (dot) com /posts/30653377/
> 
> In addition to this, I created a list of Geralt's equipment as of the most chapter of The Witching Hour, to quell people's confusion and assist with visualising Geralt. That list can be found here: forums (dot) spacebattles (dot) com /posts/30791308/
> 
> Again, as in The Wolf in December, Geralt's equipment's specifics are not the focus, but it's not totally unimportant this time, so I thought it best to provide the list.
> 
> EDIT 2/3/2017: Slight changes made to the discussion of Yang's new tool to reflect discussion on the spacebattles forum.

“Ciri, Yennefer.” A man’s voice, with a very faint and rather indistinguishable Northern accent, greeted them from a back room as they entered the small flat. “I’d heard you were looking for me.”

Ciri led her adoptive mother down the hall and into a back room. A faint, cloying scent of herbs and resins hung about the air and suffused the room in a thin, wispy smoke, coloring everything faintly blue.

The man’s tufted white hair hung about his head like a cloud as he bent over a table covered in alchemical equipment and vials of various oddments. He straightened as Ciri opened the door and turned to face her.

“Cirilla,” he greeted with a nod. “And Yennefer. Good to see you both. It has been too long.”

Ciri smiled. “Regis,” she said, embracing him. “How has Nilfgaard been treating you?”

“Well enough,” he said lightly, gently taking Yennefer’s hand and bowing slightly over it. “I must say, it is good to be in a place where vampires are deemed to be a thing of myth, rather than a thing of legend.”

“The difference being?” Yennefer asked.

“The difference,” Regis said, “is that a legend is deemed to have a basis in truth. A myth is merely the explanation of the uneducated or barbaric for phenomena with more… natural explanations. I find myself wondering what ‘natural’ explanation there could be for what happened to Beauclair, but that is not something I would bring up in Nilfgaardian company even if I were not trying to remain hidden.”

Ciri shook her head. “Has there been any word from Touissant?” she asked. “Has the duchy rebuilt itself?”

“For the most part, I believe,” Regis said with a shrug. “Although it is hard to get word from Touissant, hereabouts. I sometimes think the collective Nilgaardian population has chosen to ignore the fact that the duchy exists, so poorly does it mesh with their mundane view of the world.” He chuckled. “It must be boring, to be so… _modern_.”

Yennefer laughed lightly, leaning against a bookshelf. “Quite,” she said. “Now you understand why I left the moment we finished with the Hunt.”

“I do,” Regis agreed firmly. “But I expect I shall have to stay for… a while longer. A few hundred years, at least, before I can venture out into territories more tightly controlled or widely occupied by my kind.”

Ciri considered him. “I may have an alternative,” she said slowly.

Regis studied her for a moment. “Indeed,” he said consideringly. “Might this have something to do with your returning without Geralt? I recall the two of you were traipsing about the worlds together; Beauclair was to be your last contract on this plane before moving on.”

Ciri nodded. “Geralt has…” she paused. “He’s found a home,” she said eventually.

“Truly?” Regis seemed surprised. “I was under the impression that he intended to consider Corvo Bianco his home for the foreseeable future—at least, when he was not at your side.”

“He was given a better offer,” Yennefer said. “Teaching, apparently.”

“Ha!” Regis huffed a laugh. “And they call me a didact. Geralt can wax on and on about the trade, if you can only get him talking. Well, what? Has he founded a little school of Witchers in another world?”

Ciri shook her head. “Nothing like that,” she said. “They’re… well, they call them Huntsmen, and the world is called Remnant. It’s a very odd place. Not as many monsters, unless you count the Grimm.”

Regis raised an eyebrow. “Grimm?”

Ciri sighed. “It’s a long story,” she said. “I was looking up Geralt’s old friends and asking them if they wanted me to take them to visit him. I can tell you more about Remnant on the way North, if you’d like to come.”

Regis blinked at her. Then he smiled, his sharp teeth showing very slightly. “And if I choose to make this a one-way trip?” he asked. “Would that be… acceptable? Vampires in this world are none too fond of me any longer, as you are aware.”

Beside Ciri, Yennefer smiled. “I certainly intend to stay,” she said. “Magic is the same everywhere, after all.”

“But perhaps natural phenomena are not,” Regis said lightly. “An entirely new world of flora and fauna to explore. What an opportunity!”

“So you’ll come?” Ciri asked.

“My dear, you could not keep me behind,” Regis said. “When do we leave?”

“We’re meeting Triss, Zoltan, and Dandelion and his… whatever Priscilla is in Novigrad,” Yennefer said. “We shall then go somewhere secluded in Velen to actually make the—”

“Jump,” Ciri put in, “for want of a better word.”

“Precisely.”

“It will be dangerous for me, in Velen,” Regis reflected. “But if I keep my head down and we leave quickly, I should be safe. Well, I assume you have transport already arranged?”

Yennefer raised her eyebrow. “Haven’t you anything to pack?” she asked.

Regis chuckled. “I suppose I chould bring a few seeds,” he reflected. “Yes.” He turned and took a small chest from the corner. “There we are,” he said. “Packed. Shall we go?”

* * *

 

“Ozpin,” Geralt said at 8:15 AM on Monday morning.

“Geralt,” Ozpin greeted as the Witcher entered his office. “Welcome. How was your class?”

Geralt looked shifty. “That’s what I’m here to talk to you about,” he said. “It went… well. _Really_ well.”

“That is good,” said Ozpin, nodding amiably. “Your point?”

“Well, the kids are Huntsmen in training,” Geralt said. “And the class went really well.”

Ozpin nodded. “I see,” he said. “I will have you assigned to a new room by lunch. Can you tell me what happened?”

Geralt sighed. “It was Yang,” he prefaced.

Ozpin chuckled. “This is unsurprising,” he said.

* * *

 

“All right,” Geralt said to his class at 7:00 AM that morning, “it’s Monday. Time to see what you’ve all picked up. Who wants to go first?”

Several hands went up.

Geralt sighed. “Weiss,” he ordered. “You have five minutes.”

Weiss stood. “Apart from adding silver dust to Mytenaster’s chambers,” she said, “I also designed these.” She produced several small capsules and placed them on her desk in front of them. “Blake and I sparred using our new equipment,” she said. “I have the recording.”

Geralt nodded. “I’ll look it over after class,” he said. “What are they?”

“Red Dust grenades,” Weiss said. “It came to my attention that I don’t have many ways to do damage to heavily-armored opponents. Red Dust can melt or damage most armors.”

Geralt nodded. “Good,” he said. “It’s a good idea. Doesn’t Myrtenaster already use Red Dust, though?”

Weiss tilted her head side to side. “Yes,” she said, “but all Myrtenaster can do with it is penetrate. If the armor’s hard enough to withstand an initial impact like that, Myrtenaster is insufficient.”

“But an explosion might not be,” Geralt finished. “Good. Well done. How long is the recording?”

Weiss glanced at her scroll. “Eight minutes long,” she said. “Approximately.”

“I’ll look it over after class,” Geralt said. “Blake?”

Blake stood. “I didn’t have the formula for Samum,” she said, producing three cylindrical canisters, “so I bought some Atlesian flashbangs. They synchronize well with my shadow clones.”

Geralt nodded. “Plays to your style,” he agreed. “Misdirection. I like it. Well done. Next… Coco.”

Coco stood up. “I don’t really have a middle-range melee option,” she said. “So I designed one, but it’s still in the shop.”

Geralt nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Describe it.”

“I added another form to Storm Lucis,” Coco said, fishing in a purse—not her weapon—for a photograph. “It folds the barrels of the gun into a sort of club, sharpens the studs on the bag, and sets them around the haft.”

Geralt chuckled. “There’s a reason the old ‘stick with nails in it’ is a staple of peasant arsenals everywhere,” he said. “Good work.”

Coco came forwards and handed him an image. It looked to be a three-dimensional model of the weapon once it was complete.

“How long is it?” he asked.

“About three feet,” Coco replied.

“Good,” Geralt said, handing the image back to her. “I’ll be able to train you using a lot of swordplay techniques. Let me know if you need any help learning how to use it.”

Coco nodded with a grin and returned to her seat.

Each student followed. Jaune had gotten Pyrrha’s help adding a dust dispenser to Crocea Mors, inspired by Myrtenaster.

Pyrrha had acquired dust cartridges for her rifle.

Ruby had followed Blake and acquired flashbangs—but she’d used a purified form of lightning dust to implement it as a magazine for Crescent Rose.

Yatsuhashi had picked up a pistol and said he was hoping to integrate it into his sword’s hilt.

Fox had added bladed shinguards to match his bladed armguards.

Velvet had taken up two short knives for close-range fighting, since her weapon was rather an all-or-nothing affair, from what little Geralt had learned about it.

Yang, however, had been the real surprise. She’d come forward when her name was called, right up to him, and held out her hand.

“Hanged Man’s Venom, please,” she’d said.

He blinked. “Why?”

She grinned. “I’ll show you,” she said.

He sighed. “Be careful,” he ordered, produced the vial, and handed it to her.

With a flourish she’d taken out a small graduated glass, about half the size of a shot glass, and carefully filled it to the lowest marker. “One milliliter of concentrated poison,” she muttered, handing him back the flask. Then she downed the venom.

Geralt grabbed for her a second too late. Nimbly she jumped back out of the way. “Easy, there,” she chuckled. “I’ve— _whoa_.” She swayed slightly. “Yeah,” she mumbled, eyes fluttering shut. “This stuff’s strong.”

“That stuff’s _deadly_ ,” Geralt hissed. “We need to get you to medical—”

“Nah,” Yang said roughly, opening her eyes. They were red—not like the red, weary eyes of a drunkard, but red in the iris, and bright like rubies. Geralt noticed her hair, too, was shimmering like fire.

“I got this,” she said, a pained smirk spreading across her face. “Put up Quen.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes and obliged with a wave of his hand.

Yang punched him.

When he picked himself up off the floor and looked around, he saw that she’d somehow driven him through his desk, the wall, and well into the adjoining (fortunately empty) classroom.

She was starting pensively through the hole at him with those red eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “Situational tool, definitely.”

He shook his head at her. “You’re paying for my chalkboard,” he said.

* * *

 

“I sent Yang onto the medical wing,” Geralt finished. “She said she’d tested with lighter poisons first, to make sure they actually affected her Semblance. I still thought it’d be best if she get taken care of properly.”

Ozpin nodded gravely. “Agreed,” he said. “She seems to have taken your lesson about decoctions quite to heart.”

Geralt grimaced. “I guess I don’t have any right to criticize on those grounds,” he said roughly. “Still. Her Aura might have protected her from damage, but that just means it’s a constant drain until it’s extracted or decomposes. I was hoping my potions could be used by Aura-enhanced humans, but if her Semblance is activated by Aura drain, then she can’t afford to deal with that kind of toxicity.”

Ozpin nodded. “It is a little-publicized fact,” he agreed. “Aura has only been recorded as assisting with damage taken from within in a few very specific circumstances, such as corresponding Semblances.”

Geralt sighed. “Which makes poison not exactly ideal for Yang,” he said. “She’s not built to handle it like I am.”

“And yet she may find a particular poison which flushes out of her system quickly,” Ozpin said. “I suggest you encourage her to do further research, rather than taking the strongest poison she has on hand.”

Geralt nodded firmly. “Definitely,” he agreed. “Anyway, I’ll see you at lunch?”

Ozpin nodded. “And I shall have a new classroom for you,” he promised.

* * *

 

Summer’s ears pricked at the sound of giggling.

It was dark, and the fragments of the moon hung overhead like a crystal chandelier. The wind blowing inland from the western sea was cool, even this far from the coast, but it had lost the salty tang; even twenty miles closer to the water the hint of seabreeze could still be tasted on the night air.

Summer had taken to patrolling the edge of the forest outside the village, Pinprick resting comfortably by her side. The sword was not, of course, the same weapon lost twelve years ago. That trusty old friend was likely sitting, slowly rusting, somewhere at the bottom of a bog in the Blackmarsh. Summer had rebuilt it according to the old blueprints, of which Ozpin had kept a copy.

Pinprick was a shortsword in the classical Valean style, with a blade which tapered to a point like a thorn. In the hilt was a revolver through which Summer usually fired Red Dust rounds from the barrel directly opposite the blade. The guard of the sword curved downward around her hand, just shy of meeting around the gun barrel. It was almost as comforting to hold the old sword as it was to hold her daughters of her husband.

Only one thing had changed. The new blade had a silver coating.

The giggle sounded again, in the night. That, in and of itself, was not unusual. It was late spring, getting on into summer, and night was the companion of the young and lusty.

The unexpected thing was that today the giggling was coming from the forest.

Summer gritted her teeth. _I told them not to go into the forest,_ she raged. _Stupid horny teenagers are going to get themselves killed!_

“Hey!” she called in to the dark.

There was stillness.

“I heard you,” she ordered. “Pull your pants up and get out of there. It’s dangerous in the woods.”

There was a rustle. She sighed in relief. _Good,_ she thought. _They’re coming out._

But when the rustling grew _fainter_ , rather than louder, she knew she had miscalculated. “Dammit,” she swore under her breath, drawing Pinprick. “Don’t be stupid,” she called. “You’ll get yourselves—”

There was a sound—low and crackling, like wood straining under wind. There was no wind strong enough to produce such a noise anywhere within Summer’s senses.

She’d heard that sounds once or twice a night throughout her vigil. She knew what it meant.

“Get out of there!” she shouted urgently, stepping into the shade of the trees and rushing to follow the rustling at a jog. “Get out of there! It’s coming!”

There was a sound of a startled voice saying something indistinct further in, and a rustling began, coming closer, but all the while the creaking, moaning of strained wood grew nearer still.

Summer lowered herself into a combat stance. “Come to my voice!” she shouted. “You, monster, _stay back_. We’re leaving your territo—”

A young man and his female companion burst into her view from behind a thicket of bushes even as she was speaking. The man was hurriedly buckling his belt while the girl was straightening her shirt.

They were not the last interruption to her speech, however. Even as they came abreast of her, a wolf dove out of the thick undergrowth to her right with a furious growl.

Summer gave a strangled oath Qrow would have been proud of and brought her arm up and away from the beast. Pinprick fired, the Dust round exploding in fire in the center of the creature’s chest.

It fell at her feet, dead. The girl screamed and started to run, the boy hot on her heels.

Summer looked down at the corpse at her feet, the strange green glow fading from the wolf’s ark eyes. Then she looked up into the dark forest before her.

The crackling, wooden sound was getting closer.

“I’m leaving,” she said, slowly and clearly. “I’m leaving your territory. I’m not here to fight you.”

Preemptively, she channeled her Aura into defense even as she backed away slowly. “You don’t have to do this,” she said.

She might not know much about Leshens, but she knew wolves. They didn’t normally attack humans, but when they did it was foolish to try to outrun them, at least as a trained fighter. One needed to face them, back away, and fight when they charged. Even a Huntress couldn’t outrun a wolf for long.

But she wasn’t fighting wolves. The crackling sound grew louder, seeming almost to emanate from beneath her feet.

Summer tensed. Took another step back.

From the forest floor below her, roots bust forth like the wrath of Nature. A great, spiked mass of earthy flora exploded from under her feet, and had she been a Huntress at her peak, she might just have been able to dodge clear. But Summer had been out of action for more than a decade.

Her Aura shattered against the blow, but it kept her from being torn to shreds as she was cast back some fifty feet. She struck the trunk of a tree hard and saw stars.

The groaning of wood was ringing loudly in her ears.

 _No,_ she promised herself. _I’m not leaving them again._

She forced herself to her feet and blinked out into the dark. There was… _something_ in the shadow of the deeper woods before her. A monstrous silhouette, black against the black of the night, tall and gangly and seemingly perfectly unmoving except that it was slowly growing larger.

Only one detail was perfectly visible with the clarity of daylight, and that was the yellowed white of the stag’s skull atop its shoulders, the empty eye sockets seeming to bore into her like bottomless pits.

Summer stuck Pinprick into the back at her back to steady herself. “Not this time, you bastard,” she hissed.

Aura powered a Huntsman’s Semblance, it was true. Without Aura, using one’s Semblance was inadvisable. But it could be done, if one only provided an alternative source of energy.

In a normal Huntsress, that power would have been her muscles, which would atrophy drastically in an attempt to use Aura. Then internal organs, and then life itself.

Summer had an alternative. The forest lit slightly as her eyes began to shine silver.

“See you in four days, leshen,” she growled. Behind her, the tree shuddered, seemed to swell, and bust in a veritable explosion of white rose petals.

She made it, moving at a staggering run and barely keeping herself upright, to the edge of the forest. The two young lovers stared at her as she cleared the trees. Then she fell forward.

The world grew dark before her face hit the ground.

* * *

 

“Good to see you all found the new room,” Geralt greeted his students, giving Yang a look. “Today, we’ll be talking about stupid mistakes you can make with a situational tool.”

“Geralt,” said Ozpin, the door opening for him with a bang. All twelve students turned to it, startled. “I am sorry to interrupt. A word, please?”

Geralt frowned at the headmaster’s worried expression. He nodded. “Fine,” he said. “You twelve, don’t break the classroom. Again.”

He followed the man in green out of the room. “What’s this about?” he asked.

“Summer was injured last night,” Ozpin said without preamble.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “How?” he asked.

“We have a report from two of the townspeople,” Ozpin said quietly. “Apparently, she saved them from ‘a Grimm’ and then staggered out of the forest before falling unconscious.”

Geralt grimaced. “Think she ran afoul of the leshen?” he asked.

Ozpin nodded gravely. “I do,” he said, “though of course I cannot know. Can you get there any sooner than this weekend to relieve her?”

Geralt took one deep breath. Sighed. “Yeah,” he said, turned, and pushed the door open.

“Coco,” he asked, “is your team ready for combat?”

Coco blinked at him, then smirked. “Always.”

“Good,” Geralt said. “Pack. We’re moving out early. Rest of you, class is dismissed.”

He turned back to Ozpin. “How quickly can you get us a Bullhead?” he asked.

“One will be ready for you in the courtyard in fifteen minutes,” Ozpin said gratefully. “Thank you, Geralt.”

“Thank me when I get CFVY back alive,” Geralt said flatly, walking past Ozpin. He had work to do.

“Geralt!” Ruby called after him.

He turned. She was rushing out of the classroom, a package in her hands. “This finished in the forge yesterday,” she said. “I picked it up for you.

He took the box and pulled out his knife to open the taped seal. There, laying within the foam packing, was a pistol.

Its barrel was a white rectangle in two parts; the top half had a hint of a closed shutter which would open, Geralt knew, to reveal a grappling harpoon, while the lower was circular and lined with silvery metal. Below the chassis, three magazines emerged separately from the gun, each labeled at their base— _silver_ , _conventional_ , _Red Dust_.

The handle sat comfortably in his hand as he lifted the object and turned it about in his hand. The back of the stock was shaped and folded in such a way that it might extend in the same way Huntsmen’s weapons did, if only slightly. Above the higher barrel were simple sights, and along the barrel proper, in small, simple lettering, a single word was engraved on both sides of the white and silver weapon.

“Vesemir,” he murmured.

“I took it to get the name carved in, like you wanted,” Ruby said anxiously. “Do you like it?”

A smile spread across his face. “I do,” he said simply. “Thank you, Ruby.”

His grin widened. “Just in time to give it a test-run, too,” he said. He nodded to Ozpin. “I’ll be down in fifteen,” he said. “Hear that, CFVY?”

“Yep,” Coco said, giving him a nod before turning to her team, slipping on her sunglasses. “You heard the man,” she ordered. “Chop-chop!”

* * *

 

“So, this leshen,” Coco drawled as she led her team onto the Bullhead after their white-haired professor. “Anything on it besides what’s in the bestiary you gave us?”

Geralt shrugged, fingering the white pistol hanging at his belt. “I told you about the totems,” he said over the growing sound of the engines. “Our job is to find those, destroy them, and kill the leshen. In that order.”

Coco nodded. “Fair enough,” she said. “Any tactical advice.”

“Stay back,” Geralt said flatly. “When you fight a leshen in a forest, which is _every_ time, they have complete control over the field. They can turn the animals, the grass, even the trees against you. Watch the ground for roots; they like to make sort of root explosions, which can kill a person outright if they’re not ready for it.

Coco grimaced. “Oh, _good_ ,” she grumbled. “Velvet, sorry in advance if you have to bust out your bag of tricks.”

Velvet nodded. “It’s fine,” she said firmly. “Not like I can’t replace them.”

Geralt glanced at her. “How’s your weapon work, anyway?” he asked.

“I copy other people’s,” Velvet said, “but I can only use them for a short time. It’s both my Semblance and my weapon.”

“Yeah, I’d use any weapons you’re confident you can replace,” The Witcher said slowly, considering that. It was a very vague description. Some part of him, the part that reveled in training with every weapon known to man, looked forward to seeing it in action. “This is a relict; not a time to keep things in reserve.”

“Relicts are particularly bad?” Yatsuhashi asked.

“Relicts are the second-most dangerous monster class, in my book,” he said. “A peasant might whine about necrophages, draconids or hybrids, but that’s because they _see_ those. Relicts are rare as hell and even more dangerous.”

“Second-most?” Fox asked lowly. “What’s the first?”

“Higher Vampires,” Geralt said. “Take my advice: you ever see a man with foot-long claws and a face that looks half-bat? Don’t draw a weapon, don’t try to fight. Just _run_ , and hope they’re feeling merciful.”

* * *

 

“Geralt,” Summer said weakly as she man approached her bedside. “You’re here early. Or did I sleep in?”

Geralt smiled slightly. “You only slept one night, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said quietly. “About thirteen hours, by my count. Imagine you’d like to get back to it, though.”

Summer nodded against her pillow. “You’re not wrong,” she said roughly. “Geralt, that thing…”

“I know,” Geralt sighed. “I’m sorry. I should have told you more.”

She shook her head. “I should’ve been more careful,” she grumbled. “Set up a proper perimeter, not just patrolled the edge of the trees. Stupid kids wouldn’t have gotten past a barricade.”

“Leshen might’ve taken exception to having a human structure that close to the forest,” Geralt said. “That wouldn’t have ended well.”

Summer sighed. “Oh, well,” she said. “Maybe _I_ should take your class, too.”

Geralt chuckled. “You’re all right?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” she huffed, tiredly, but in good humor. “Peachy keen. Don’t feel like a skull-headed tree-man knocked out my entire Aura pool in _one hit_ and then forced me to use my powers to get away at all.”

Geralt frowned. “Powers?” he asked.

She blinked at him. “Oz hasn’t told you?” she asked.

Geralt shook his head slowly. “He did give me that book of fairy tales, though,” he said slowly. “Silverblood?”

Summer grimaced. “I prefer ‘silver-eyed warrior,’ thank you,” she said defensively. “My blood’s plenty red. “I ought to know.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed quietly. “So’s mine.” He stepped away from the bed. “You get some rest,” he said. “Leshen won’t be bothering anyone for much longer, I promise you that.”

She smiled at him before letting her head fall back against the pillow. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said.

* * *

 

“Well?” Coco asked as he closed the door to Summer’s room?”

“It’s an old one,” he said tiredly. “Must have either moved here recently or gotten more active for some reason. Drained her aura in one hit.”

Coco’s face fell. “A trained Huntress’ Aura?” she asked quietly. “In _one hit_?”

He nodded. “I told you,” he said. “ _Be careful_. Never stay in one place to long, and be ready to move at a moment’s notice. They like using crows and wolves, but it can use everything in that forest against us.” He started walking down the clinic’s corridor toward the exit. “Don’t ever assume we’re safe until I’ve cut off its head.”

Coco caught up with him. “What range does it like to fight at?” she asked. “Should we avoid closing in?”

Geralt shook his head. “That’s the worst part about leshens,” he said wryly. “They’re comfortable at every range. Yatsu can be whaling on it in melee and be in only a little more danger than you a hundred yards away.” He stopped and turned to face her. “I didn’t want to bring a team with me,” he said quietly, “but Ozpin thinks you’re ready. I hope he’s right, and I think he might be. But do us all a favor and listen right now.”

Coco nodded. Her teammates leaned in.

“There is not a single patch of dirt or grass,” Geralt said darkly, “not a single pebble in a stream of _safe ground_ in that forest. From the moment we go in to the moment we leave, we are in mortal danger. _Don’t_ get complacent, and be on guard at all times.”

Coco nodded grimly. “Understood,” she said firmly.

“Good,” Geralt said.

He led them out of the small hospital and towards the forest’s edge. Geralt ignored the watching villagers, their curious and worried eyes following the Witcher and the four Huntsmen as they strode down the main road toward the forest. The townspeople knew why they were there, but after seeing what the leshen had done to Summer only the previous night, they were all on edge.

Geralt bit his tongue apprehensively at the thought. People on edge brought Grimm.

The houses fell away quite suddenly about a hundred paces from the treeline, some primal instinct keeping prospective builders away from the untamed wilds.

“Totems, you said?” Coco said, her voice low.

Geralt nodded. “Follow my lead,” he said quietly. “We’ll follow the sound of crows to each totem, and my senses are sharper than yours.”

Coco nodded. “Say you’re busy keeping us alive and one of us has to break a totem,” she asked. “Will we know them?”

“Unless you’re used to seeing altars made of sticks and bones,” the Witcher said grimly. “A force should destroy them. Fire works too.”

Coco smiled. “Force we can do,” she said, winking at Yatsuhashi. “Yes, sir, force we can do.”

* * *

 

“Welcome to Beacon,” Ciri said lightly as the green glow faded.

Regis staggered slightly. “ _My_ but that is an odd feeling,” he said, blinking. “I wonder if that is what the original Conjunction felt like?”

“Unlikely,” said Yennefer dryly, catching Ciri as she, too, stumbled. “Are you all right, Ciri?”

Ciri sighed tiredly. “You couldn’t have left behind the unicorn?” she asked, panting slightly.

Yennefer grinned. “Afraid that would have been impossible, my dear,” she said, chuckling.

“Miss Ciri,” said a woman’s voice from across the courtyard.

Ciri looked up. “Professor Goodwitch,” she said, allowing Yennefer to help her up. “Good day. Sorry to arrive unannounced.”

“I quite understand,” the blonde in the white blouse, black skirt, and violet cape said with a nod. “Unfortunately, Geralt is not at Beacon; you missed him by only a few hours.”

Yennefer frowned. “Why?” she asked. “Where is he?”

The woman named Goodwitch looked shifty. “Professor Ozpin should tell you that,” she said. “First, if you don’t mine my asking, who are you all?”

Yennefer nodded. “Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she introduced. “This is Regis—” she nodded at the vampire. “The dwarf is Zoltan,” another nod, “the redhead is Triss, and the idiot is Dandelion, with his ball-and-chain, Priscilla.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes, a _very_ faint hint of a flush on her features—Dandelion had trained most of the embarrassment out of her by now, it seemed. The man himself, of course, looked quite indignant. “Idiot?” he asked in mock offense. “You take that back! I am a poet of high renown!”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Yes, in taverns and whorehouses,” she said dryly. “Now, this Ozpin. If he should tell us where Geralt is, perhaps he could get on with doing so?”

Goodwitch nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Come with me, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated but not solicited. If you want to talk to anyone other than myself regarding the story, feel free to join the discussion on the spacebattles thread.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is coming to the mirrors one day late as a result of how swamped I was with IRL work yesterday. You all have my sincerest apologies for that.
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Also, please note that a slight alteration has been made to chapter four as a result of reconsidered Aura mechanics-discussion on the spacebattles thread showed me that there was a problem with how I had Yang's Aura and the Hanged Man's interact.

Geralt knelt soundlessly, his chainmail barely clinking on his form as he studied the ground.

“This is where Summer was attacked,” he said quietly, noticing the atrophied root structure protruding like a shrub. “The leshen’s attack’s left traces.”

“So, further in?” Fox breathed.

Geralt nodded and stood back up. “Be careful,” he said quietly. “Our priority is to ascertain how old this leshen is and how long it’s been near this town. If it’s been long enough, it may have marked an inhabitant.”

“Marked?” Yatsuhashi asked quietly, his eyes darting around for any sign of life.

Geralt nodded. “Old leshens who stay in one place for long enough can mark a person living nearby,” he said. “As long as that person stays in its territory, it can’t be killed. If it’s marked someone here, it makes our job a lot harder.”

He led the four student Huntsmen further into the dark woods. The trees were thick and a deep green, with a few starting to yellow with the coming autumn. The canopy dimmed the light as surely as the roof of a cave. Coco had taken off her sunglasses, but Geralt doubted she could see especially well even without them. Witcher mutations, as always, had their advantages.

His eyes glimmered faintly as they surveyed the area. All around he could see vague signs of the leshen’s habitation. Wolf tracks too close together at too high a speed—running wolves liked to separate and surround their prey.

He held up an arm to order a halt. Carefully, trying to minimize the crunch of dead leaves under his boots, he padded up to a boulder and ran his finger along the gash marks in the stone.

“Deep,” he muttered, feeling the gravelly silt in the wound. “Marking its territory, maybe?”

“Do leshens do that?” Velvet asked.

Geralt tilted his head from side to side. “Sometimes,” he said. “Not in general, though. They do it when they first come to a new habitat, or when they feel their sovereignty is threatened.”

“I thought the attacks had started recently?” Coco asked.

“Not always a guarantee,” Geralt said lowly. “Sometimes a leshen will… well, not coexist, but refrain from attacking the people of a settlement for generations at a time.” He inhaled deeply through his nose, and blinked. “What…?”

“What is it?” Coco said quickly.

“I smell…” Geralt trailed off. He wasn’t sure, yet. “Follow me.”

He led them between the trees, his ears perked for any sound to hint at an approaching Relict, occasionally pausing to sniff at the air.

Soon, it was unmistakable. “Blood,” he said lowly. “A couple of days old, at most. Summer hasn’t let anyone in from the village in that time.”

“So who could have died?” Velvet whispered.

Geralt came around a copse of trees and stopped, because there was his answer. He knelt.

“A woman,” he said slowly, studying the corpse. “About fifty, I’d guess. Stabbed through the heart.” He carefully pulled aside the cloth covering the bloodied entrance wound in the body’s chest. “No bruising around the entry,” he murmured. “This was done with a long blade, and sharp—the wound cuts all the way through her body, but the blade still wasn’t hilted.”

“A person did this,” Yatsuhashi said darkly.

“A human or a faunus,” Geralt agreed, “most likely. Whether they’re a person remains to be seen.”

He reached out and lifted the dead woman’s eyelids. Her irises were green—a bright, poisonous green like no human eyes—and her sclera were darkening in death, the cataracts becoming a dark, wooden brown.

“Well, well,” Geralt said slowly. “Seems like we’ve got an amateur Witcher around here.”

“What?” Velvet asked.

“This was the leshen’s mark,” Geralt said. “Can’t be certain, but it seems likely that she was killed in preparation for an attack on the leshen itself.”

“Another Witcher?” Coco asked.

Geralt shook his head. “There aren’t any other Witchers in this… part of the world,” he said. “But there might be someone who knows their way around leshens.” He looked around. “A trail,” he murmured, noting the crushed leaves where feet had trodden. “Come on.”

Only one set of footprints was visible, and they matched the leather boots worn by the dead woman. He traced them back, CFVY following behind him.

As they followed, however, Geralt suddenly stopped, his head tilted to catch a sound. “Shit,” he murmured.

“What is it?” Coco asked. Velvet hushed her; Geralt noticed her long ears were raised and alert.

Their eyes met. On the edge of his hearing there was the low crackling groan of a leshen’s passage.

If they were very, very lucky, it hadn’t noticed them. Geralt didn’t like their odds.

Sure enough, the sound was getting louder. Now the students could hear it, and they were looking at him worriedly.

Geralt blinked once, slowly. He had a choice—either they could stay here and hope it was going to pass them, or they could start moving and hopefully evade it, but certainly draw its attention.

He drew the silver. “Come on,” he ordered, his voice no longer at a whisper. “Move!”

He led them at a run, following the footprints. If necessary, he could turn and fight the leshen, even though he couldn’t kill it until the totems were destroyed.

The sound grew ever louder, slowly overtaking the quiet of the forest until it was as though every tree in the wood was groaning in fury at their passage.

Geralt blinked as they cleared a thicket. The footprints led into a house in a small clearing; a glade untouched by the woods.

There, at the doorway, stood a man in a bone-white mask, long green sword drawn.

“In here!” he called. “It can’t follow you in here!”

Geralt nodded and led his students out of the trees into the house. The man stood aside to allow them passage and them followed them in, shutting the door behind him.

As the passage shut, the droning sound of the leshen was abruptly cut off. Silence fell but for the five runners’ heavy breathing.

Geralt studied the man who had granted them shelter. He was clad in armor of fur and leather, in black and green. His voice had had a very faint Mistralian lilt when he had spoken. A mask-like helmet, white with green trim, covered his face, but behind it green eyes were appraising Geralt in return.

“Bit foolish,” the man said dryly, “to challenge a forest spirit without knowing what you’re doing.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “And you do?” he asked.

“Of course,” said the man scornfully. “The tribe has passed down the secrets of the Old Beasts since time immemorial.”

Geralt considered the man for a moment. “I call them leshens,” he said. “Hunting them, and other things, is my job. You’re the one who killed its mark a few days back?”

The man nodded, his eyes blinking behind his mask. “So you do know your way around them,” he said. “Well, that’s a surprise. Who are you, Huntsman?”

“Not a Huntsman,” Geralt said. “A Witcher. Have you destroyed its totems?”

“Not yet,” the man shook his head. “I’ve been preparing my Dust for an excursion. I planned to leave this place at noon, when visibility is best.”

Geralt nodded. “Good move,” he agreed.

“So, wait a minute,” Coco said, looking between them. “Who are you, anyway?”

The man drew himself up. “I am Zielon Parcella of the Corvidae,” he said proudly. “Warrior under Chief Branwen. I am here to claim a trophy for my family and my people.”

Geralt blinked once. “Branwen?” he asked. “As in, Qrow Branwen?”

This was apparently the wrong thing to say. Zielon growled and tensed, his hand going to the hilt of his now-sheathed sword. “Do not speak of that traitor in my presence,” he growled.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “…Sure,” he said after a moment. “We’ve got a leshen to kill. This place have windows?”

Zielon nodded slowly. “It does,” he said. “We should be able to see when the monster moves on.”

Geralt nodded. “We should be careful,” he said. “This thing got through a Huntress’ aura in one hit. There were extenuating circumstances, but this one’s gotta be at least five hundred years old, if not more. Probably the oldest leshen I’ve ever heard of.”

“Indeed,” Zielon agreed. “The woman who lived here—her family have coexisted with the beast for generations. It protected them, and they gave it immortality. Pah.” He huffed derisively. “An unnatural pact.”

“Ironic you’d say that about a nature spirit,” Geralt said. “I suppose the pact means it can’t touch anything in this house?”

“The forest cannot expand into the cottage’s grounds,” Zielon said, “and the spirit cannot leave its forest. We are safe here.”

“But we still have to kill it,” Geralt said dryly, pushing past him. “Come on, CFVY, we need to find a window.”

* * *

 

“The sun is as high as it’ll get,” Zielon said, straightening from the table where he’d used as a makeshift workbench to treat his blade with Dust. “We much act.”

Geralt nodded. “Right,” he agreed, turning to the third occupant of the cottage’s sitting-room. “Coco, get your team,” he ordered. “Time to move.”

Coco nodded, her face set. “On it,” he said, and left.

Geralt corked the potion he’d been brewing and stowed it in his pouch. He took a moment to run his fingers across the arrayed corks of his decoctions, before choosing one.

The ancient leshen decoction would charge his body with energy, growing more potent the more he expended that energy on his Signs. With how much he was going to have to use both Quen and Igni, that could only help.

He grimaced as the burning philter flowed down his throat, then grunted in pain as the fire spread through his body rapidly, his mutant biology transmitting it quickly throughout his extremities.

He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, then blinked a few times to clear the greenish toxicity film from his eyes.

“You don’t look well,” Zielon commented idly.

“Yeah,” Geralt said roughly. “I get that a lot.”

“We ready?” Coco asked, coming in with her team.

Geralt nodded. “Move out,” he ordered.

They left the house quietly, cautiously, and instantly Geralt was stretching his hearing for crows.

There. About half a kilometer away, to the north.

“This way,” he hissed. “Keep quiet.”

They crept amidst the trees, making as little noise as possible. Not the slightest sound was heard—no trace of birds or squirrels could be found. They were all in thrall to the leshen, and it was keeping its agents as quiet as they were.

It took some time, but at length they reached the totem; a five-foot tall affair of sticks and bones. “The moment I destroy this thing,” Geralt said quietly, “the leshen will know exactly where we are if it doesn’t already, and keep in mind—it can attack from this range. Be ready to dodge something, and keep your Aura up.”

Coco nodded. “Got it,” she said. “When you’re ready.”

Geralt quickly put up a Quen shield, allowed himself a moment to recover, and then thrust forward an Aard.

The totem collapsed and immediately the woods around them started groaning, the very trees seeming to rebel against the destruction. There was a rumbling beneath their feet—

“Roll!” Geralt ordered sharply, and dove out of the way just in time.

—and roots trhust upward from beneath all six of them. Geralt dodged his, but was struck a glancing blow by one which had been aiming for Velvet. Immediately, he felt his Quen shield drop, but more than that, he felt an odd sensation of being depleted.

“Was anyone struck?” Zielon said sharply.

Geralt ignored him, his eyes closing as he tried to self-diagnose.

_The magic had drained his Aura._ No, drained was the wrong word.

“This thing attacks our Aura directly,” he said quietly.

“Indeed,” Zielon said grimly. “Many of the Old Beasts do. It is why they survive, despite the rise of Huntsmen. They are dangerous in ways the Grimm are not.”

“No wonder it drained the Huntress’ Aura in one hit,” Velvet said quietly.

“Right,” Geralt said quietly. “That changes things. Everyone, _be careful_. Get hit directly by this once, it’ll probably drain all your aura. Get hit a second time, and you’re dead.”

He cast Quen and cast his senses about, listening for crows. “This way,” he said. “And be careful—the leshen may try to head us off.”

They moved more quickly now—the leshen knew where they had been and where they were headed, so stealth was less vital than it had been.

Geralt started to regret the incautious approach when he heard the crackling groans of the leshen directly ahead of them.

“It’s between us and the totem,” he said darkly. “Zielon, take CFVY and take out that totem.”

“You will fight it?” Zielon asked.

Geralt nodded, drawing his sliver and casting Quen. “You five go around,” he said. “I’ll be fine. This is my job.”

“Be safe,” Velvet ordered worriedly.

Geralt nodded at his four students. “Same to you,” he said, and walked forward.

The leshen struck with roots before he could see it. He rolled out the way, then sidestepped a charging wolf, his silver sword carving a gash down its side which left it whimpering and lying on its side, unable to run as he bent to stab it through the heart.

Crows, then. Geralt rolled out of the way of the charging flock and threw an Igni behind him to burn their feathers and render them flightless.

Acorns began to ping off of his golden barrier as squirrels tossed them down from the branches. He ignored them as a nuisance and kept moving, sidestepping another wolf and beheading it as it passed. He rolled to avoid another root attack and ducked beneath a low-hanging branch of a nearby tree which swung at him like a club.

But when a branch protruded at lightning speed from what had before been smooth bark, he was unprepared for it. It burst his Quen shield, casting him back some ten feet and sending him tumbling.

He managed to catch himself and come up kneeling, but he felt his Aura draining. He hissed and tried to tighten his grip, metaphorically, on the soul energy.

Something clicked.

He blinked. His Aura seemed to suddenly have begun to drain slowly, but he saw, all around him, a faint green glow, suffusing all living plants and animals in the forest.

And there, behind a thicket of trees, that glow coalesced and brightened into a familiar silhouette in glowing forest-green.

_My Semblance,_ he realized immediately.

The glow sharpened, seemed to grow more pronounced, in the bark of a tree to his left. He rolled out of the way as another grasping branch shot out of the bare wood and struck for him.

_I can see its attacks coming._

He sidestepped a wolf and began to run toward the Leshen, rolling to dodge a root attack as he moved.

He saw the glow of the Leshen flowing into the ground and move in his direction like an underground stream of water. He recast Quen quickly and sidestepped as it burst out of the ground alongside a host of rising roots just a foot from him, and was immediately swinging.

Once, twice, Aerondight rang out as it struck the beast, which gave a groaning wail. Then Geralt was jumping backward to avoid a clawing arm, and rolling to avoid a burst of roots.

He came up from the roll beside the leshen and struck it with a thrust. It staggered back, moaning in its strange, wooden way and clawed at him with its arm.

He jumped back… right into the root which drove itself into his back from behind.

His Quen shield exploded again, throwing him right past the leshen. The glowing green of the leshen’s magic faded from his vision as his Aura reached zero.

He picked rolled into a standing position. Not a moment too soon, as roots thrust upward from below where he’d been prone.

He turned back to the leshen, casting Quen as he turned. It was watching him through those empty eyes, as still as the trees around them, seeming perfectly content to wait.

Geralt palmed a Dancing Star and threw it, then rolled out of the way of the reprisal. He hear the leshen wail awfully as it was lit afire, and felt the breeze of displaced air as roots thrust upward where he’d been standing. He ran towards the beast, intent on strafing along its side, swinging his sword as he passed.

He hit the beast, but it hit him back, breaking his Quen again and throwing him back against the trunk of a tree. The moment he realized what his back was against, he tried to push away and roll, just an instant too late. The thrusting branch tore a gash out of his side as he moved away.

He growled, feeling the blood run and hearing the faint hiss as his toxic ichor hit the forest floor and boiled with the decoction’s poison. His teeth gritted against the pain, he cast Quen again and lowered himself back into a ready position.

When the leshen staggered for no obvious cause, without being struck, he knew it meant that CFVY and Zielon had managed to destroy the two remaining totems.

He dove for it, Aerondight spinning in the air around him. It cut deep into the leshen’s chest, and he rolled away as it retaliated, then rolled again to avoid its striking roots.

Three wolves dove at him from behind, but wolves are not stealthy attackers, and he spun, his sword out in front of him, cleaving all three across the muzzles before getting hit by another attacking branch and being cast sideways.

He rolled into a standing position and cast Quen again before looking back at the leshen.

“Almost over,” he said coldly. “Your totems and mark are gone. You die now, it’s all over.”

The leshen, of course, answered only with another attack with its roots, which he rolled into it to avoid. He came out of the roll with his hand coming out in Igni.

The leshen let out another groaning cry as it was set aflame for the second time that fight and Geralt, sensing a chance, swung the silver sword hard.

A mistake. The leshen was stronger than most of its kind, and was not staggered by the flame. Before the sword came down, its claw had come out, and Geralt’s Quen had shattered again, casting him down at its feet.

This was a bad position. He was in melee range, off of his feet, and it was bound to be ready to cast another root attack.

He rolled out of the way as fast as he could, but was surprised when it was enough. Then he noticed the gunfire.

“Get some!” roared Coco Adel, her minigun whirring as it fired a stream of silver into the leshen’s staggering form.

_This_ was what an opportunity looked like. Geralt forced himself to his feet, brought up his sword, and with a wild cry, swung it into the monster’s neck.

With a crackle, a groan, and a sound like thunder, the leshen went down. It moved on the ground, reaching for him, but Geralt rose up, ignoring the impact of a stray two bullets on his bicep and thigh, and thrust downward.

The leshen gave a final, horrific wail as the silver sword impaled its chest, and then was still.

Geralt forced himself to pull Aerondight out of the leshen and sheathe it. Coco was looking at him in horror.

“I hit you,” she murmured. “Your aura…?”

“Ran out,” Geralt said hoarsely. “While back.” He looked at Zielon, behind the leader of the student team. “You need a trophy?”

“I shall take its horns,” Zielon said. “They will suffice.”

“Good,” Geralt said, fumbling for Swallow. “CFVY, think you can carry a body?”

Velvet wrinkled her nose. “We have to carry it back?”

“Not it,” Geralt said, his knees buckling even as he managed to pull out the orange potion. “Me.”

He pawed at the stopper, trying to open it. “Gotta close the wound,” he mumbled, almost feverish. “Close the wound…”

He was aware of Coco coming forward, trying to prop him up. She was saying something, but he could barely hear her through the fog. He got the stopper off at last, downed a dose of Swallow, and that was the last he knew for some time.

* * *

 

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Geralt.”

Geralt’s eyes fluttered open. “Summer?” he asked weakly.

“Got it in one,” said Summer’s voice gently. “Don’t try to move; that thing did a number on you.”

The roofbeams above came into focus. He was in the same clinic Summer had been in before they’d fought the leshen, and by her voice a few feet to his right he thought she was still lying in the bed adjacent to his.

“It’s dead, right?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Summer chuckled. “Coco told me. Definitely dead. They destroyed the totems and… and Zielon took the antlers.”

Her voice had broken slightly on the man’s name. Geralt caught it. “You know him?” he asked.

A sigh. “Not directly,” Summer said quietly. “But he claimed to be working for a Chief Branwen, right?”

Geralt tried to nod. “Any relation to Qrow?” he asked.

“His sister,” Summer said sadly. “My old partner.”

Geralt blinked. “Sounds like a long story.”

“It is,” Summer chuckled wryly, “and not one you’re in any shape to hear. I’m almost recovered from my Aura exhaustion, but I’m still on bedrest for another day. Coco’s taken command; she sent word to Beacon the moment you got back.”

“How long was I out?” Geralt asked.

“Eighteen hours,” Summer said. “You blacked out at about two in the afternoon yesterday, and it’s eight in the morning now.”

Geralt nodded. “I should be good by the evening, then,” he said, closing his eyes. “Thanks for catching me up, Summer.”

“No problem,” she said. “Get some sleep.”

Geralt did.

* * *

 

When he next awoke, the orange light streaming in from the window told him it was evening. His wounds had knitted up—although the gash in his side would be leaving another new scar—and most of his strength had returned. Even his Aura was mostly back.

He sat up.

“You needn’t be quite so eager to aggravate your wounds,” said a dry, achingly familiar voice from his bedside.

Geralt whirled. There, in her customary robes of black and white, her violet eyes sparkling as she studied him, was… “Yen?”

She smiled. “Geralt,” she replied. “You really must be more careful.”

Geralt ignored that. “What are you doing here?” he asked, blinking. “When did you arrive?”

She laughed. “Only a day and a half ago,” she said. “Shortly after you left for this contract. When Miss Adel sent word that you were injured, we came with the relief group. May I say that these Bullheads are incredibly convenient?”

Geralt huffed a slight laugh. “They are that,” he agreed. “You said—we?”

“Indeed,” said a voice from the doorway as it opened.

“Regis!” Geralt said, the smile that had already touched his features widening.

The vampire returned it, his lips pressed slightly together to keep his sharp teeth hidden. “Hello, my friend,” he said in that crisp tone of his. “How have you been?”

Geralt shrugged, pushing himself back against the headboard so he could lean back in a sitting position. “Not bad,” he said honestly. “Remnant’s not a bad place, if you ignore the Grimm.”

“Which, of course, you are not,” Regis said lightly. “You are a Witcher, after all.”

Geralt snorted. “Fair enough.”

“On that topic,” Yennefer said, and there was a slight edge to her voice, “why on earth was a leshen that problematic for you? You’ve killed ancient leshens without nearly so much trouble.”

Geralt sighed. “Couple of reasons,” he said, closing his eyes as he thought. “First, it drained my Aura—which isn’t too big of problem, since I’m not used to using it yet, but it’s important anyway. Second, that wasn’t an ancient leshen.”

Yennefer frowned. “All the more—”

“You don’t get it,” Geralt said quietly. “That thing was older than Regis. Half a millennium, at least.”

Its bark had been knarled beyond any leshen Geralt had seen before, its lichens practically trailing on the ground. Besides those pieces of evidence, however, it had done more damage more quickly than any other the Witcher had encountered.

“Indeed?” Regis said slowly. “That could explain it. This is, I suppose, the cost of a lack of Witchers and a relatively small monster population. Very little competition or predation.”

“Would the Grimm not attack them?” Yennefer asked. “Surely they can’t appreciate having a Relict set up shop in one of their forests.”

“Grimm don’t seem to work like that,” Geralt said. “They generally don’t target anything that isn’t sapient, and leshens aren’t, technically. Sentient, yes; sapient, no. I don’t think they care about things like territory.”

Yennefer considered that. “I can think of a few reasons why that might be the case,” she said slowly, “But none of them make too much sense. Hm.”

“We shall have more time to study the Grimm, I am sure,” Regis said. “Geralt, are you feeling up to a walk? The others would like to see you, I’m sure.”

Geralt nodded and swung his legs over the side of the bed before standing. He noticed, then, that he had been stripped of his armor and was wearing only a loose-fitting white shirt and pants. “Any idea where my gear is?” he asked.

“The closet, there,” Yennefer said, pointing.

“I will allow you to change,” Regis said, retreating behind the door. “Come outside when you’re ready.”

He shut the door behind him. Geralt crossed to the wardrobe and opened it.

He stripped off the shirt and reached for his knapsack and the underarmor contained therein.

“At some point,” Yennefer said idly, “you shan’t have anything but scar tissue left.”

“Some women like scars,” Geralt said lightly, pulling out an undershirt.

“Mm.” Yennefer murmured. “Scars are pleasant in moderation, perhaps. I’ve been known to be partial. It’s rather more than that, though.”

Geralt glanced at her, eyebrow raised. “How so?” he asked.

She was watching him, her eyes dark. “Scar tissue is less sensitive, for one,” she said evenly. “One of these days, I’ll be able to touch you and you shan’t feel a thing.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “That’s an exaggeration and you know it,” he said dryly. “I’ll be dead long before that happens.”

“Yes,” Yennefer said lowly. “Yes, you will.”

Geralt slipped off his pants and pulled on undergarments. He wasn’t about to push Yen. Something was clearly on her mind, but she’d tell him if she wanted to.

“I suppose this is the price for my foolishness in falling for a Witcher,” she said wryly. “Look at me now; worrying like a damsel in a shitty three-lien romance.”

Geralt snorted. “Lien?” he asked. “You’ve gone native awfully quickly.”

“I might as well try to get acclimated quickly,” Yennefer said. “But really, Geralt. Do try to be more careful, all right?”

Geralt buckled his britches and turned to face her. “I can’t promise anything,” he said honestly. “Just like you can’t promise me you won’t someday get yourself killed in an experiment gone wrong.”

Yennefer looked away. “I think I might be able to give up magic for you,” she said quietly. “I’ve managed with politics.”

Geralt ran his eyes over her for a moment before replying. “And I could probably give up the trade for you,” he said. “But I’m not going to ask you to give up magic, even though it might kill you.”

She sighed. “Damn it all, Geralt,” she said wearily. “Fine. But do _try_.”

Geralt’s lips twisted into a smile. “Depends,” he said slowly, “on what you brought with you from back home.”

Yennefer met his eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said demurely.

“I’ll give you a hint,” he said. “Four legs, white fur, one horn.”

She grinned at him. “Ciri was quite unhappy about the extra load,” she said. “I had to leave a few books behind.”

“I’ll be sure to get you new ones,” Geralt promised. “But you did bring it?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll be sure to try my hardest,” Geralt said, grinning as he clasped together his chestpiece.

“Goodwitch looked quite confused when I brought it to your rooms,” Yennefer said, chuckling. “I was tempted to explain its purpose to her. In detail.”

Geralt grimaced. “I like this job,” he said, slipping on his gauntlets. “I’d like to keep it.”

He knelt to put on and clasp his boots, before standing again. “There we are,” he said. “Lead the way, oh great and powerful sorceress.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t engage in foreplay unless you mean it, Geralt,” she chided him. “Come.”

He chuckled as he followed her out of the room, down the hall, and out of the clinic.

“Geralt!” The moment he was out the door, Ciri was in his arms.

“Ciri,” he laughed, returning her embrace. “Welcome back.”

She smiled up at him. “And how has Remnant been, this past month or so?” she asked.

“Not bad,” Geralt said. “Got some new toys.” He pulled out Vesemir and handed it to her. “Didn’t use it against the leshen,” he said. “Haven’t trained with it yet.”

Ciri giggled as she took the pistol and examined it. “Overengineered and overcomplicated,” she said, “like every other Remnan weapon. I approve.”

Geralt grinned and looked around. “Damn near everyone’s here,” he said incredulously.

Ciri smiled. “We had to take two bullheads to have room for all of us and enough to spare for all of you,” she said lightly. “But no one was willing to stay behind.”

“An’ why should we?” Zoltan asked roughly, the dwarf coming forward and holding out a hand.

Geralt took it and slapped the dwarf on the shoulder, accepting the return palm to the side. “Zoltan,” he said with a grin. “Keeping Dandelion in line.”

“Aye, but that’s nae my job anymore,” Zoltan chuckled, nodding back at the bard, who looked affronted. “It’d be hers.”

Geralt glanced over, and smiled. “Dandelion, Priscilla,” he said, coming forward.

Dandelion moved to shake his hand, but Priscilla beat him to it with an embrace. “Geralt,” she said. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Her voice was ever-so-slightly scratchy but otherwise seemed to have recovered fully. “Good to see you too, Priscilla,” he said. “Voice doing all right?”

She chuckled. “It’ll never be quite the same,” she said.

“That’s good, though!” Dandelion said, clapping Geralt on the shoulder. “It sounds better now. And Geralt, how have you been? Any new material for my ballads?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Remnant has plenty to work with,” he said dryly. “No need to drag me into it again.” He laid a hand on his old friend’s shoulder and held him for a moment, their eyes meeting. “It’s great to see you,” he said.

“Same to you, Geralt,” said Dandelion with a grin. “Same to you.”

There was a touch on Geralt’s arm. He turned, and Triss pulled him into an embrace.

“Geralt,” she murmured.

He smiled slightly and held her close. “Hey, Triss.”

They held each other for a moment.

“I wanted to apologize,” she said.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Geralt replied.

And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regis continues to be the best character besides Geralt himself.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated but not solicited. The spacebattles forum remains open to discussion.


	6. Chapter 6

“Geralt,” Ozpin said gravely. “Welcome home.”

Geralt’s lips twitched slightly. “Ozpin,” he greeted, stepping down from the bullhead to the stone of Beacon’s courtyard.  The second bullhead, with Team CFVY and Summer, was just pulling onto the second landing pad behind them. Yennefer followed him off. “Thanks for sending them my way,” he said to the Headmaster. “Pleasant surprise to wake up to.”

Ozpin nodded. “I had hoped they might find you in time to help,” he said. “Failing that, of course, I am glad to have facilitated an early reunion. Besides which I doubt I could have been able to keep your friends from following anyway.”

“Quite right,” Yennefer snorted.

The sun had set, and the deepening purple twilight allowed the luminescent green glow of Beacon’s spire to cut through the night like a second moon. It reflected eerily off of Ozpin’s deep-green clothes, making him seem almost to glow, even as it washed the color out of most faces.

“Will you be able to teach your class tomorrow?” Ozpin asked. “Your students have been asking after you all day.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Brats,” he muttered. “Yeah, I should be fine. Might be a bit sleep-deprived, but I’ve worked through worse.”

Ozpin frowned. “If you get to bed now, you should have adequate time to recover,” he said. “And did you not spend most of the last two days in a bed?”

“Well, yeah,” Geralt allowed. “But I don’t think I’m going to be doing much sleeping tonight.”

“Damn right you’re not,” Yennefer growled huskily. “I didn’t drag that unicorn across time and space just so it could sit idle.”

Ozpin crossed a hand over his eyes. “I see,” he said. “Please try not to wake the students.”

“I make no promises,” Yennefer said.

* * *

 

“So, how’d it go?” Ruby asked Velvet eagerly as the second-year team filed into the classroom the next morning.

Velvet exhaled heavily. “It was… rough,” she said slowly. “The leshen was dangerous. It drained Aura. Geralt didn’t expect that, I don’t think. Some of his friends showed up after we finished. Apparently, Professor Ozpin sent them after us.”

“Wait,” Yang said quickly. “What?”

Geralt entered just then. “What is this, social hour?” he asked roughly. “Sit down, all of you.”

They did. Geralt came towards the center of the room. Ruby was watching him so intently that she didn’t notice the woman who entered behind him until she felt a hand brush her shoulder lightly. She turned. Blinked.

“ _Mom_?” she asked startled.

Her mother smiled down at her. “Hey, little Rose,” she said.

Geralt coughed. Summer Rose rolled her eyes and followed him down to the center of the classroom.

“So,” Geralt said. “Before anything else, I think all of you have met Summer. She was the Huntress who told us about the leshen. She was injured by it on Tuesday night, which is why Ozpin rushed us out the door on Wednesday.”

Ruby shuddered and looked at her mother worriedly. The woman smiled back reassuringly.

“Summer,” Geralt said, glancing at her. “Why don’t you take over?”

Summer nodded at him and leaned back against his desk. “Geralt wanted me to talk to you about monsters,” she said. “I’ve encountered three, now. Only one of them didn’t nearly kill me, and two Witchers were fighting that one. So I’m going to give you a Huntress’ perspective on monsters.

“Let me preface this by saying that they’re _dangerous_. I mean, obviously. But it’s not quite what you’re thinking. Most Grimm could probably pose more of a threat in a straight fight than most monsters. Even though that leshen was deadly, it wasn’t really comparable to something like a Goliath or a higher Grimm. But monsters have things the Grimm don’t, and that’s why Huntsmen aren’t already using tools like Geralt’s.

“The first monster I encountered looked human. It acted like a human, talked like a human, and…” she stopped. Looked down.

Ruby didn’t realize she was standing up until she was already in her mother’s arms. Summer huffed a damp laugh and held her close. “Sorry,” she said quietly.

“It’s okay,” Ruby whispered. “Love you, Mom.”

Summer squeezed her and looked back at the class over her head. “I won’t go into detail,” she said firmly. “It’s personal. But suffice to say that I was missing and presumed dead for twelve years because of what that one monster did. And that wasn’t the worst thing Geralt’s ever had to face by any stretch.”

She shook her head. “Monsters have survived,” she said, “by staying hidden, and by keeping our Huntsmen and our militaries from realizing they exist. That means that they’ve got skills and powers very different from the Grimm. They don’t just charge you like the Grimm do. They aren’t aggressive, murderous beasts. They’re usually pretty intelligent, and always have a few tricks you wouldn’t expect up their sleeves.”

She leaned down to kiss the top of Ruby’s head, and then looked back at Geralt. “Back to you,” she said.

“Thanks, Summer,” Geralt said, looking around the class. “Any questions for Summer?”

Ruby wasn’t looking, so she didn’t see the hands go up. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Geralt give a nod.

“Can you tell us about the leshen, Mom?” Yang asked. “What’d it do? What tricks did it have up its sleeve?”

Summer hummed consideringly. “Well, it drained Aura,” she said dryly. “Didn’t find that out until later. I thought it’d just broken my Aura in one hit. No, apparently, its magic was sort of an anti-Aura. It used its magic to make roots spring out of the ground like knives. I wasn’t expecting it, and it got me _hard_. Knocked me back a fair distance, and drained my Aura. I barely got away.”

“How _did_ you get away?” Blake asked.

Summer chuckled. “That’s a long story,” she said. “Suffice to say _I’ve_ got a few tricks up my sleeve too.”

“If you had to fight the leshen again,” Pyrrha asked, “what would you do differently?”

“Run faster,” Summer said flatly. “Wait for Geralt.”

“No other suggestions?” Ren pressed.

Ruby’s mother shook her head. “Not from me,” she said. “I only saw it use _one_ attack, remember? I’m not the person to ask for detailed deconstruction of that specific monster. All I know is that every monster I’ve seen has been really dangerous, even if each one was dangerous for totally different reasons.”

While her mother was speaking, Ruby, wiggled out of her grip and nestled into the crook of her elbow, huddling into her side comfortably. Summer smiled down at her and stroked her hair gently.

“What was the second monster?” Coco asked.

“Nightwraith,” Geralt cut in. “It’s in the specters section of your bestiaries. My daughter and I fought it near the end of your last semester. Summer and Team RWBY were there.”

“It was incorporeal until Geralt did things to make it physical,” Summer said, “but it could still attack. If he hadn’t had his signs and his Moon Dust bomb, I don’t know how he would have won.”

“I’ve _fought_ specters without using Moon Dust or Yrden,” Geralt admitted. “I don’t recommend it. They’re not very common around here, though.”

“How would you even go about that?” Yatsuhashi asked.

“Silver still hurts them,” Geralt said, pointing to the angular-hilted sword on his back. “Not as much, but you _can_ kill them that way. Well, assuming they can be killed to begin with.”

There was a pause.

“What does _that_ mean?” Nora asked.

Geralt sighed. “Specters sometimes can’t be killed conventionally,” he said. “Or you need to jump through hoops to make them killable. Penitents, for instance, appear in sites where some horrible deed was done. In order to kill them, you need to find the person who did it and make them undo it as best they can. Until they do, the penitent can’t be harmed in any way. I fought one once which had taken up residence at a lighthouse. The keeper had a bad habit of shutting off the light when merchant ships were coming in, then looting the wrecks. I had to hold the penitent off while he went to the lighthouse and lit it.”

The Witcher shook his head then. “All that’s beside the point,” he said. “I wanted you all to have an opportunity to talk to a Huntress who’d fought monsters, get her opinion on them, get a feel for how they compare to the Grimm. If there aren’t any more questions, we should get on with it.”

“Mind if I join you?” Ruby’s mother asked.

Geralt blinked at her. “For the lesson?”

Summer nodded. “Might do me some good,” she said. “We didn’t have a Witcher in residence when I was in Beacon, after all.”

Geralt shrugged. “Fine, grab a seat.”

Ruby followed her mother back out into the benches. Once they were settled, he began.

“We didn’t have time to go over everyone’s tool choices last time,” he said, “so we’ll start on that now. I can give each of you more in-depth reviews and thoughts in private, but for now, I’ll just give you a score and a quick comment. We’ll start with the obvious: Yang.”

Ruby saw her sister grinning sheepishly.

“Full credit,” Geralt said dryly, “for an effective tool that plugs a hole in your style.” Geralt had pointed out that needing to get hit to charge with her Semblance meant that Yang would never reach full-strength against an opponent who could cripple her in a single blow, and many larger Grimm fit that category. “I expected you to pick up something a little more… tactical… but if it works, I won’t complain. Also, if you break my classroom again, I’ll break you.”

There was a round of chuckling from around the room. Yang was slightly flushed, but looked pleased with herself overall.

“Next, Weiss,” Geralt said. “A-minus. A good tool, but it’s not a big equalizer. It’ll work _better_ against armor and large groups, but you already had Red Dust in Myrtenaster which could do most of the same functionality. Not to mention you were already using Dust more than any other student, and specializing further isn’t the point here.”

Weiss nodded, looking unhappy. Ruby winced sympathetically—Weiss _did not appreciate_ anything below about 97% on an assignment.

“Blake,” Geralt said. “Full marks. Flashbangs are something totally outside your usual toolkit, capable of dealing with new situations, _and_ it synchronizes with your previous abilities. Well done.”

Blake nodded placidly.

“Ruby,” the Witcher said then, and the team leader looked away from her teammates and met his gaze. “Solid A, not quite full credit. Your Semblance already covers a lot of the weaknesses your new flash rounds do. You can close distances, or make space, fast enough that disorienting them doesn’t help you as much as it might otherwise. So your tool doesn’t really cover weaknesses, like the assignment demanded. _That being said_ , disorienting the enemy with flash rounds _opens them_ to a charge and a melee engagement, like Axii does for me. Your new tool synchronizes well with your old gear, even if it doesn’t plug holes.”

Ruby nodded. She’d have to ask him for ideas for better tools and weakness analysis.

“Now, Pyrrha,” Geralt said. “Full marks for a simple solution. Adding Dust to your kit is invaluable.”

Pyrrha smiled slightly.

“Nora, full marks,” Geralt said. “Yellow Dust synchronizes with your Semblance in a _much safer_ way than what Yang was going for.”

Nora grinned and winked at the pouting, sullen expression on Yang’s face.

“Ren, full marks—conditional on you getting me an actual working version by the end of the year.”

Ren nodded. He’d brought forward blueprints of an upgraded StormFlower which would seamlessly swap between machine-pistol and hand-cannon configurations to deal with more heavily armored enemies.

“Jaune, B,” Geralt said. “Dust is good, but it doesn’t give you any new ranges or engagement options. It _only_ enhances your damage. Blade oils are fine, but they’re not really an equalizer.”

Jaune nodded, looking frankly pleased with the grade.

“Coco,” Geralt said, “solid A, although I’m hoping you’ve figured out the weight problem. A club won’t do you any good if you can’t swing it. You’re just shy of full marks because you already had a melee option, even if it is a reach increase.”

Coco grinned. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said lightly. “I can handle it. A’s fine.”

Geralt nodded. “Fox,” he said. “B-minus. It’s an improvement, but it doesn’t change how you fight at all. You already use your legs—like Jaune’s, this just ups your damage, and it isn’t even as dramatic an increase as his.”

Fox’s expression didn’t change from its usual slight scowl. He just nodded.

“Yatsuhashi, solid A,” Geralt nodded at the large student. “Full marks if you can show me that the integrated weapon works well.”

Yatsuhashi nodded shortly.

“Finally, Velvet,” Geralt turned to the rabbit faunus. “Full marks. Major combat style change, and gives you a lot of options. Everything I asked for. Well done.”

Velvet smiled slightly.

“And now, with that out of the way,” Geralt said firmly, “let’s get back to analyzing each of your styles as they are now. I want to get through that today so we can get on with our lives on Monday.”

* * *

 

“Priscilla,” Geralt said lowly, approaching the woman during lunch. She looked up and smiled at him.

“Geralt,” she greeted, her voice slightly lower than he remembered, likely as a result of her acid burns. “What is it?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“Keep the others busy for me. Yen can help you.” Geralt set a hand on Dandelion’s shoulder where the bard sat beside his lover. “We need to do something.”

Dandelion blinked at him. “What on earth, Geralt?”

“Hush. Follow me.”

Geralt led his friend down the long dining table until he came to where Regis was sitting, talking with Summer, at its end. Team RWBY was assembled around them, listening.

“So you see,” the Higher Vampire was saying, speaking carefully to show as little of his teeth as possible, “the _vampire_ as presented by mythology is primarily fabrication. I would assume you had some of the lower breeds here, at least. While they do drink blood—”

“Regis.”

Regis glanced up. “Ah. Yes. Mrs. Rose, students, if you would excuse me.”

He stood up smoothly and extricated himself from the table. “You have wine?” he asked Geralt.

“White Wolf. Yen brought it with you.”

“Good. It would not be proper otherwise. Lead on, my friend.”

By now, Dandelion had figured out what was happening, and followed Geralt without a word as he led the two of them out of the dining hall and down a corridor into a small room. The place was probably a conference room, usually, by the long table in its center. Geralt had already been here, and had set out six places; each with a table of bread, meat, and cheese, and a small mug of wine.

Geralt took the head of the table, and Regis and Dandelion sat to his left and right, respectively.

For a time, they were silent, looking at their food without touching it.

“Dandelion,” Geralt finally said. “You’re the poet. What have you got for us?”

“There’s a time and a place for poetry,” Dandelion replied.

Regis chuckled slightly. “My, but you have grown up. Has it been half a century of poetry yet?”

“Not quite yet,” said Dandelion with a hoarse laugh. “Not quite.”

Silence again.

“Milva would disapprove of this,” Regis said quietly.

Geralt nodded. “I can hear her now,” he said dryly. “‘What’re you three old sops doing? There’s work to be done! We haven’t the time for this nonsense!’”

Dandelion snorted and twitched, as though about to bring a hand up to his face. “And Angoulême would have told her to ‘Give ‘em a minute, Auntie, they can’t help being old men!’”

“And then Milva would’ve reminded her why she wasn’t to be called Auntie,” Regis agreed with a smile—a proper smile, wide and toothy. “And Cahir would just sit and watch them and pretend not to be rolling his eyes.”

“He really was very like you, Geralt,” Dandelion said, glancing at the Witcher. “Like a younger you.”

“Wasn’t half the swordsman,” Geralt said quietly. “Might’ve been more than half the man, though.”

“He was proud,” said Regis softly. “In the very best way. He had pride enough to be humble. Pride enough to be as good a man as he could.”

“Yes,” agreed Dandelion, perking up. “Yes, that, exactly! Do you mind if I use that line, Regis?”

“Not at all, my friend.”

“Oh, you two met up again in Toussaint, right?” Dendelion looked between the two of them. “How was that?”

Geralt grimaced, but Regis smiled.

“As idyllic as you remember,” he said. “Possibly more so, after Geralt’s intervention.”

“Doubt Dettlaff would agree.”

“Dettlaff made his own choices, Geralt, from beginning to end.” Regis set a hand on the Witcher’s shoulder. “He chose to be what he was—something as near to an animal as a vampire’s nature would allow. Without that, he might have understood deception, or vengeance, or forgiveness, but he has ample opportunities to learn each.”

“I think he picked up vengeance pretty well.”

“Vengeance? No. A mad rampage through Beauclair over a dishonest lover is not _vengeance_ , Geralt. You, who were planning to avenge Ciri’s death before you found her alive, ought to know that.”

“Vengeance doesn’t have to be equal.”

“No, but it must be targeted. It must be specifically designed to hurt the intended individual. Whereas if there was anyone in Beauclair who would _not_ have been hurt by the deaths of its citizens, it would be our dear Sylvia Anna.”

“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” Dandelion asked smoothly.

“I suppose you haven’t heard the story, then? You’ll have to pester Geralt to tell you it, sometime.”

“There’s a couple stories you haven’t heard, Dandelion,” Geralt said quietly. “Stories from my travels with Ciri. I’ll tell you a few of them before you leave. We’re getting off topic, though.”

“Yes,” agreed Dandelion, his face falling as he looked over the three empty places. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

Geralt raised his mug of the finest Toussaint wine. His friends followed suit.

“Milva,” he said quietly. “Cahir. Angoulême.”

The words stuck in his throat. It was all he could do to force out two. “Thank you.”

“To the victorious dead,” Dandelion said.

Regis was silent.

As one, the three friends lowered their mugs and drank deeply. One by one, they finished and set them down.

Dandelion was frowning at his. “Geralt,” he said. “What wine did you say this was?”

“White Wolf.”

The bard met his eyes. “Geralt,” he said. “ _Why do you have a Toussaint wine named after you_?”

* * *

 

Geralt shifted his grip on Vesemir thoughtfully as he studied the target across the field. After a moment, he slowly drew the gun back and slung it behind him, before bringing his hand down to a resting position. Then he reached back and pulled it out, still moving slowly and carefully. He pointed it at the target and took a moment to aim. Then he withdrew it again and began anew.

“Practicing?” The voice was Summer’s.

“Figuring out how I’m going to draw it,” Geralt explained. “I need to be able to pull it out fast.

“Might want to learn to shoot it first,” the Huntress advised. “Just an idea.”

Geralt snorted as his hand returned to rest. Then, in one motion, he fluidly drew the gun, aimed it, and fired at the target. The whole motion took less than a second.

The bullet, however, did not hit the target, instead pinging off the wall near it.

“See?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Geralt did not withdraw the gun this time. Instead, he took his time, carefully lining up his shot.

“Why not use both hands? It’s a .50 caliber, right?”

“Yeah. The whole idea is to be able to use it without sheathing my sword.”

“You’ll never be as accurate with one hand—”

Geralt fired. The round struck true, right in the center of the target.

Summer stopped talking.

“I’m a Witcher,” said Geralt coolly. “My hands don’t shake.”

He withdrew Vesemir and slung it on his back again. Another quick draw, and another round fired.

This one struck the target, but near the outside.

“You’re awfully good at this,” said Summer faintly.

“Aiming isn’t much different from a crossbow,” said Geralt. “Obviously it’s a different shape and weight, and the recoil takes some getting used to, but I’m optimized for that sort of issue.” He withdrew Vesemir again. Drew and fired again. The round was closer, but not by much. This time, it hit the opposite side of the target.

“What will you do now?” Geralt asked Summer, glancing at where she sat behind him on a low stone wall.

She shrugged. “I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “But, then, I never am. That’s the Huntress’ life.”

“Sounds like the Witcher’s Path.”

“I think it is, a bit. Difference is, we get appreciated for it. Most of the time.”

Geralt chuckled. “Must be nice,” he said.

“I think it’s better than the alternative,” said Summer. “But heroes are expected to _be_ heroes. All the time. Sometimes that’s hard. Sometimes it’s… too much for people.”

Geralt slung Vesemir on his back and turned to her. “Like Branwen?” he asked.

Summer pursed her lips. “Just curious?” she asked.

“A bit, yeah.”

She nodded. “Well, it won’t hurt. Her name was Raven Branwen, and she was my partner in Beacon. She and I, with her brother Qrow, and Tai—we were team STRQ. I was the leader. If you can imagine a Team RWBY with a lot more sexual tension and a little less skill—at least at first—that was us. Qrow was Ruby, Tai was Yang. Raven was Blake, and I was Weiss.”

“Really?” Geralt asked. “You, Weiss?”

Summer chuckled and nodded. “Hard to imagine?” she asked. “I’ve warmed up a lot. Ruby and I were similar in that we both had trouble connecting with people, but she had Yang. I didn’t. So I became cold. Distant, I guess. I imagine Weiss got to be how she is in the same way.”

“And Qrow was like Ruby?”

“He was Raven’s little brother,” Summer explained. “He was… so young, then.”

“He looks older than you.”

Summer sighed, looking down. “I know,” she said sadly. “Losing Raven and then me… it’s done a number on him. He’s the youngest of our team by two years, but you’d never guess it by looking at him. Alcohol and stress, if I had to guess. My fault.”

“Not like you asked that incubus to come after you.”

“I was leader,” Summer said dryly, glancing up at him. “It’s not about the incubus; it’s about Raven. I should’ve tried harder to get her to stay. I think… I’d loved Tai for a long time. I think she saw that, saw how mothering I was being with Yang. I don’t know whether it was jealousy or some kind of martyr complex, but it doesn’t matter. I should have been paying attention to her. I shouldn’t have been so focused on Tai and Yang that I let my own partner get driven away like that. That’s on me, as leader.”

“You didn’t drive her away.”

“Not deliberately, but blindness is as much a flaw as malice, in a leader.” Summer shook her head. “Maybe I’ll go to Anima. Try to find her. Try to _talk_ to her.”

“Will she listen?”

“She was never good at listening,” Summer chuckled. “But… maybe she’ll listen to me.”

“Qrow’s gone to Anima, too,” Geralt recalled. “Is he after Raven as well?”

“Probably,” said Summer. “He’s probably gone to tell her I’m alive, and see if she knows anything about Salem.”

“She’s Zielon’s chief, right? Are all her tribe monster hunters?”

“Maybe.” Summer slumped slightly. “Would you believe I never asked her much about them?” she asked quietly. “I just… I never wanted to know about them. They were bandits and thieves. Murderers. I was always just glad she’d left them and come to us. I never wanted to hear about them. I should have asked her. There’s so _much_ I should have asked her.”

Geralt watched her for a moment. “You should go to Anima,” he said quietly. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

Summer snorted. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“Why didn’t she come back after you died?”

Summer met his eyes. For a moment, he held her gaze. Then she nodded slowly.

“It’s worth a try,” she agreed. “I’ll see if there isn’t a boat or a flight going that way in the next couple of days. Thank you, Geralt.”

“My pleasure.”

* * *

 

Emerald Sustrai was awoken by a gentle, warm hand on the cold skin of her arm.

“Emerald,” a soft voice whispered in her ear, “wake up, my dear.”

“Five more minutes,” Emerald moaned into her pillow.

The voice laughed like molten gold. “I’m afraid not.”

Emerald’s eyes flared open and she sat up. “Cinder,” she breathed. “I’m sorry, I was napping, I—”

“Never mind. Emerald, I must speak with our… benefactor.” Cinder’s supple voice sent shivers down Emerald’s spine, matched only by the shudder that went through her when the woman’s golden eyes trained on her as she glanced up from her tablet. She was laying, knees up, in the bed beside Emerald’s. Her back was propped against the wall, and her hand was still resting in the crook of Emerald’s elbow. The tablet sat perched in her lap, a diagram displayed on it. Cinder’s hair was bunched lazily over one shoulder, hiding her mouth from Emerald’s view, and her eyes like fire peered over the smooth black cascade, crinkled slightly by a smile Emerald couldn’t see. “Be a dear and keep Mercury or… anyone else from walking in on me, would you?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Emerald hastily, withdrawing from the dorm. “Uh, let me know when you’re done?”

Cinder chuckled—a hot, breathy sound which made Emerald weak at the knees. “Of course.”

Emerald shut the door behind her and leaned against it, glancing up and down the hall. It was empty, and she allowed herself a sigh of relief and a slight slump.

_That woman is going to kill me one of these days,_ she thought with a sigh. _Stupid, sexy Maiden._

When she’d first met Cinder Fall in that Valean slum, she’d never imagined she’d be feeling like this just a couple of years later. The woman had always had _presence_ , but at first that presence had manifested as fear. Despite her power, Emerald had found herself afraid of what this woman with the curved swords and the Semblance to control glass could do to her.

Then Cinder had promised her sustenance—had promised that she’d never go hungry again. An easy promise to make, to an urchin on the street. To Emerald, it had meant something rather different.

It had soon become clear that Cinder had already known that. Which only made her more frightening—she had been totally assured, staring Emerald down in that alleyway, despite knowing _exactly_ what she was facing.

But power is intoxicating, and there was no one more powerful than Cinder Fall—neither in raw strength, with the magic of the Fall Maiden behind her, nor in strength of character. It wasn’t long before Emerald’s knees stopped knocking together and started crossing in Cinder’s presence.

The green-haired girl bit the inside of her lip. She _knew_ Cinder was using her. The woman was leading her on for her own purposes, clearly. That didn’t change the fact that, working under her, Emerald was happier and more well-fed than she had been in years.

“Hello.”

Emerald jumped and whirled, her hands going for her Vermillion Fangs, only to remember that she’d left them in the room.

Before her stood an elderly man, a tuft of white hair emerging like a wisp from an otherwise somewhat balding head. His hands rested on the strap of a canteen which hung on his shoulder and rested on his hip.

“Hello,” she said. “You’re one of Professor Geralt’s friends, right?”

“Correct. You may call me Regis.” He stood against the wall opposite her. “And who might you be?”

“Emerald Sustrai,” Emerald said.

“Sustrai. Derived from Ansaur-Sterey, one of the old clans, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“I find myself curious what you might be doing in Beacon academy.”

“Same as everyone else. Learning to defend myself from the forces of evil.” Emerald met his dark, slightly bloodshot eyes without blinking, her face carefully blank to conceal her fear.

“Admirable,” said Regis, smiling. His sharp teeth glinted.

“I’d like to think so. Of course, I’m from Haven, only here on exchange for the Vytal festival.”

“Ah, the tournament. Yes, I imagine that would be a good test of a young Huntress’ skills.”

“That’s the idea, yeah.”

“Well, allow me to give you a piece of free advice,” Regis said. “Professor Geralt is a Witcher. Are you familiar with the trade?”

“No.”

“He hunts monsters. Ghouls, hags, succubae, werewolves. Vampires.”

Emerald didn’t answer.

“He is a good man. He does not harm those who give him no cause, regardless of what they are.”

Emerald gave no reply, only held the man’s gaze carefully.

“Take my advice, Miss Sustrai,” said Regis gravely. “Give him no reason to hunt you. It would be a shame for you to die so young.”

Emerald nodded slowly. “I see,” she said. “Thank you for the warning.”

“You are quite welcome.” Regis turned away and began to continue down the hall. Then he glanced back. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Emerald lied.

“But please, call me Regis.”

“I will.”

“Thank you. Good day, Miss Sustrai.”

He left. Shakily, Emerald ran her tongue across her sharp teeth.

She didn’t want to interrupt Cinder, but as soon as the woman was done… she’d need to hear about this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, uh, forgot to post this here. My bad, won't happen again.

“Your class seems to be going well,” Glynda said conversationally over breakfast.

Geralt nodded. “The kids are picking it very quickly,” he said. “Faster than I expected, really. They’ll be decent enough Witchers by the end of the semester at this rate, with or without mutations.”

On his other side, Yennefer chuckled. “I do not think I shall ever get used to this,” she said, amused. “You sound like a proper teacher, Geralt.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’ve taught before.”

“Yes. Ciri. And only when I let her out of my sight.” She smirked at him. “You were far from a traditional teacher with her. What changed?”

‘She wasn’t exactly a traditional student.” He glanced down the staff table to where Ciri, Triss, Dandelion, Regis, and Priscilla where eating together. “She’ll be headed out soon, I guess.”

“Most likely,” agreed Yennefer. “You know she can’t stay in one place for long. She’s too much like you.” A wry laugh escaped her. “You certainly taught her vagrancy.”

“You’re sure you want to stay?”

“Quite sure,” said Yennefer evenly. “What’s keeping me back home, after all? Certainly not the Lodge, and my associations with Nilfgaard have returned little to nothing. Getting involved in the war has left me with quite the shortage of friends, you know.”

He grimaced. “I can understand that.”

“Ciri and the others won’t be leaving today, will they?” Glynda asked suddenly.

Geralt glanced back at her. “Probably not. Why?”

“It would just be a shame for all of them to miss the dance. They’d be more than welcome.”

There was a pause.

“What dance?” Geralt asked.

* * *

 

“So, this dance. I assume you want to go?” Geralt asked, looking over at Yennefer. They were back in their suite, and she was lounging in an armchair, a book in her hands.

“Don’t assume, Geralt,” she replaied lazily, turning a page. “It’s quite unattractive.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, don’t you?”

“I’m ambivalent,” she said, without looking up.

“Liar. You’ve always dragged me to things like this.”

“You must be confusing me with someone else,” she said, a dry edge to her voice. “Triss, perhaps?”

There was silence for a moment. It stretched.

“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

“It’s not,” Geralt said roughly. “I’m—”

“Oh, do stop,” she said, snapping her book shut and rolling her eyes at him. “It’s all in the past, Geralt. Stop fretting.”

He sighed. “All right. But really, what do you mean you’re ‘ambivalent?’”

“Exactly what I said. I would neither mind going, nor mind staying here. I would also have no objections to going somewhere else.”

“I thought you liked social gatherings like this.”

She smiled wryly. “I liked _politicking_ , Geralt. I liked going out and meeting with other people who were powerful or influential, and manipulating them, and risking being manipulated in turn. It was a game, and one which I was—am—quite good at. This is entirely different. I somehow doubt there will be much of that kind of society at a _school dance_. The only attraction here will be actual socialization, which is far less interesting.”

“Then you _don’t_ want to go?”

“I have told you twice, Geralt, I am _ambivalent_ ,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t make me repeat it again. It is _less_ interesting, not _un_ interesting. I will certainly need to become familiar with Miss Goodwitch and the others at some point, but I am in no particular hurry. That’s all.”

Geralt considered that. “All right,” he said. Then he shrugged. “I guess I’m ambivalent too.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyebrows rising slightly. “I would have thought you’d hate the very idea.”

“Don’t assume, Yen.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Oh, very clever,” she said, but there was a smile in her voice. “But really.”

Geralt glanced at his desk. “These are the people I work with,” he said slowly. “I haven’t really had _colleagues_ before. I haven’t even had a _place_ where I worked before. I feel like I should be a part of it, if that makes sense?”

For a moment there was silence. Then Yennefer started to laugh. “Oh, Geralt,” she said. “You are adorable sometimes, do you know?”

He blinked at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she chuckled. “Yes, it makes sense. I think we should go.”

“All righ—”

“And _you_ will be wearing something other than your armor.”

“…Damn.”

* * *

 

Geralt shifted uncomfortably, trying to roll his shoulders in the too-tight sleeves. _I hate this,_ he thought savagely. _These aren’t clothes, they’re_ livery _._

“Stop squirming, Geralt,” said Yennefer softly beside him. “You look dashing.”

“I feel like I’m being slowly crushed,” he growled, tugging lightly at his collar.

“Oh, quit whining,” she said dryly. “I know those clothes were well-tailored. You’ll live.”

Geralt sighed. “Give me a striga any day,” he muttered.

She slowed, falling into step beside him, and linked her arm with his, pressing gently against him. Her fur collar tickled at his shoulder, and her side was warm against his. “Stop your moaning, Geralt,” she ordered teasingly. “I’m beginning to feel unappreciated.”

He sighed. “All right, I’ll stop. Where is the dance, anyway?”

“I believe it’s being held in the entrance hall,” she said, pulling him gently along. “Come. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

Yennefer’s boots clicked against the stone floor as they walked down the hall. Slowly the sound of laughter and loud voices reached their ears, all against the backdrop of soft music.

“Hmm,” Yennefer murmured thoughtfully. “Violins. I somehow expected their music to be less… familiar.”

“It’s just one song,” Geralt said.

“True. What _is_ the music like here, Geralt? I haven’t heard much.”

“Nor have I. It’s not something I pay a lot of attention to.”

Yennefer chuckled. “Nor I, but it pays to be familiar with the local music culture. It’s a safe conversation topic.”

“You’d know better than me, Yen.”

The doors to the great hall were open when they arrived. They were on the upper landing, and below them were a great crowd of students and teachers alike. Geralt recognized several. Dandelion and Priscilla were there, immediately visible with Dandelion’s bright purple outfit. There was Velvet, on the sidelines with Ruby and Jaune. There were Yang and Blake, together on the floor. Weiss was fussing over the decorations. Pyrrha was lingering near Ren, and Nora was practically orbiting him, making occasional attempts to pull him onto the dance floor. Coco was dancing with someone he didn’t recognize, and Yatsuhashi and Fox were both watching the pair like hawks.

He was brought out of his observations by the sound of Yennefer’s laughter. She was watching him, a merry smile on her face. “You really are adorable, Geralt,” she said, low enough to be private. “You just picked out every single one of your students, didn’t you? Like a mother hen, you are.”

He looked away. “I just happened to spot them,” he said.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “That’s why you were searching so hard. Come, I believe you owe me a dance.”

“Right.” He cracked his neck. “Yes. Dancing.”

She leaned into him, laughing. “Oh, calm down. You know how to dance.”

“Doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

They strode down the main steps together. A few of the nearer dancers and idlers stopped what they were doing and watched their descent. Geralt suppressed the flare of jealousy as he saw a few eyes dart across Yennefer’s black dress.

Yennefer herself had no such compulsions. “You see? The clothes _do_ fit you. I look forward to having to fend some of these harpies off later.”

“Yen. Play nice.”

“Why should I? It should be clear they aren’t welcome.”

“Doesn’t stop people from looking.”

She raised an eyebrow up at him. “Oh? You would know, would you?”

He looked down at her, then slowly smiled. “Not anymore,” he said, slowly trailing his eyes down her dress. “No more wandering for me.”

She rolled her eyes. “You really are a hopeless romantic,” she said, pulling him towards the dance floor. “Come on.”

He followed with a faint laugh.

* * *

 

“May I have this next dance?”

Geralt turned, blinking. Yang stood there, her simple white dress bright in the electric lights, a smile on her face. He and Yennefer had just been leaving the dance floor for a rest. Yang’s hand was outstretched to him, but her eyes were on Yennefer.

The sorceress, looked the girl up and down expressionlessly, then turned to him. “Well, Geralt?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to give the girl an answer?”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at her. “I see what you’re doing,” he accused.

A smile broke across her features. “Oh, do calm down,” she said. “It’s just a dance. I shan’t mind so long as I have you back by the end of the night.”

“Don’t worry,” Yang said, grinning. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get any ideas. How much do you like your jaw, Geralt?”

Geralt glared balefully between the two of them for a moment, then sighed. “Fine,” he said, and took Yang’s hand, following her onto the dance floor.

They remained like that, swaying and stepping to the music for about a minute, before she spoke. “I didn’t expect you to know how to dance,” she said. “You’re not bad.”

“Believe me, it’s not by choice.”

She giggled. “Oh, same, believe me. You never know, though. Maybe it’ll come in useful one day.”

“It has in the past,” he shrugged. “Once or twice.”

“That’s reassuring,” she said. There was a pause as he led her through a twirl, and then they were back together again.

“So what’s this about, Yang?” he asked, keeping his voice low in case the topic was private.

“What, do I have to have an ulterior motive?” she asked, a coy quirk to her lips. “I can’t just want a piece of the hottest professor in the school?”

“Yang.”

She sighed, dropping the act. “Mom left a few days ago,” she said. “She said she was going after… well.”

“Raven.”

“So you _did_ know.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry, should I have told you? I didn’t think about it.”

She shook her head. “No, Mom did. But… is that where Qrow went, too? He’s been missing for a few weeks now. Haven’t heard from him.”

Geralt nodded. “Yeah. I assumed he told you, too.”

Yang snorted at that. “Nah. Qrow never tells me anything. He doesn’t like me.”

Geralt frowned at her. “Really?”

She didn’t look at him. “Yeah. He’s never really… trusted me. It doesn’t help that he’s never told me anything about Raven. His own _sister_.”

“And you’re hoping I know something?”

“Yeah,” said Yang, looking back up at him. Her lilac eyes, a few shades brighter than Yennefer’s, were hard. “You got along with Qrow, and Mom trusts you. I don’t want you to break their trust… but if you know anything you can tell me, I’m curious.”

Geralt nodded. “All right. What _do_ you know?”

Yang looked down at her shoes. Her hair tickled his chest through the fabric. “Nothing at all,” she said, her voice soft. “I know she was on a team at Beacon with Mom, Dad, and Qrow, and that she left a few months after I was born. That’s all I know.”

“Then I can tell you a bit,” he said. It wasn’t as though he’d been asked to keep any of it secret.

Her head snapped up to look at him. “Really?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“Yeah,” he said. “Here and now? Or do you want to talk about it another time?”

She blinked and suddenly seemed to remember where they were. “Uh. Later. Can I come by your office tomorrow?”

“Sure. I’ll be there most of the afternoon.”

She nodded. A smile was spreading across her face. “Okay. Thanks, Geralt. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble. You deserve to know. I don’t have much, though.”

“Anything is a start.” She pulled away and curtseyed prettily. “I’ll let you get back to your date. I should go check on…” She stopped. Looked around the hall.

Geralt did the same. There was Weiss, dancing with a blue-haired kid with goggles. There was Blake, swaying gently in the arms of a boy with a monkey’s tail.

“Where’s Ruby?” Yang asked.

Geralt frowned. “Not just Ruby,” he said quietly. “Where are Ozpin and Ironwood?”

Yang looked up at him. “Do you think something’s wrong?” she asked.

He grimaced. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “Yen’s going to kill me.”

“Not if you invite her along.”

“Even then.” He shook his head. “You get back to the dance. I’ll look into this.”

“I haven’t got a partner anyway,” she said easily. “I’ll come too!”

He narrowed his eyes at her, then shrugged. “Fine. Come on.”

* * *

 

“Geralt, I’m _quite_ sure it’s nothing,” said Yennefer for the third time. “Ironwood did not strike me as the type for dances. I expect Ozpin was just seeing him off.”

“Then where’s Ruby?” Yang asked.

“She didn’t seem like the type for dances either,” said Yennefer, and Geralt could practically hear her rolling her eyes, even though she was behind him. “You saw how uncomfortable she was in those heels. And really, those had to be five inches! For a girl of her size, that’s rather gratuitous, isn’t it?”

“Hey, I picked out those shoes for her,” Yang said, but there was a grin in her voice. “You got something against my fashion sense?”

“You have a fashion sense?”

Geralt knelt. The two women fell silent behind him.

He was on the stone steps outside the hall. There had been a great many footsteps here, very recently. But more recently than the rest, and walking _out_ , not in…

“Small feet, long heels,” he mumbled. “Ruby was here.” He breathed deep through his nose, and there it was—the telltale scent of cinnamon and roses he’d come to associate with his youngest student.

“Are you… smelling out my sister?” Yang sounded a little disturbed.

“Would you rather I didn’t find her?” he asked, without turning around.

“No, no, go ahead. You sure you’re not a dog faunus?”

“Yes.” He stood up, inhaling deeply. “This way.”

He led them at a slow jog. They crossed the courtyard towards Beacon’s CCT tower.

“Why would she be headed to the CCT?” Yang asked. There was an undercurrent of worry in her voice now.

“Don’t know,” said Geralt. “Maybe she needed to…”

He trailed off, stopping short. His eyes narrowed. There was a hint of yellow in the bushes beside the tower’s entrance.

He broke into a run. Yennefer was immediately on his heels, and after a surprised “Hey!” Yang followed. “What’s going…?”

She stopped. She’d seen him too. Geralt knelt beside the armored body, worming his fingers into the space between the helmet and the chestpiece. “There’s a pulse,” he said. “He’s alive.”

“Good,” said Yennefer. “But clearly something is happening. Your instincts are keen as ever, Geralt.”

“Sometimes I wish they weren’t.” He stood up, looking up at the tower. He closed his eyes. “Shh.”

There was sound coming from higher up the tower. Movement? Combat, maybe?

_Boom._

“Was that an explosion?” Yang asked sharply.

“Yes,” Geralt growled, sprinting inside. There were more fallen soldiers inside, but he didn’t have time to check on them. He ran into the elevator, brought a finger up to the controls, and then hesitated.

 _Only one guess,_ he told himself. The sound hadn’t come from high enough on the tower to be Ozpin’s office, but that still left dozens of floors.

Still, if there was a fight going on, it made sense that it would be at a landmark, a _significant_ floor. And there were only four in this tower. Ozpin’s office, the Vault, the lobby, and the CCT terminals.

He tapped the button to go to the terminal floor as Yennefer and Yang filed in behind him. The doors slid shut, and the elevator began to rise. They were silent as it rose, save for the sound of Yang’s rapid breathing.

“Don’t worry,” Geralt said, surprising himself. “Ruby can take care of herself.”

Yang blinked at him. Then she smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, she can.”

The doors opened. Ruby blinked at them. Ironwood turned to face them. Geralt immediately noticed the crater in the floor.

He sighed. “So,” he said dryly. “What did we miss?”

* * *

 

“They used your dance as a cover, Ozpin!” Ironwood roared, his fists clenched tightly at his side.

“I am well aware of that, Ironwood,” said the Headmaster calmly.

They were in Ozpin’s office now. Yang and Ruby had been sent back to the dance floor. Despite Ironwood’s request, Yennefer had not gone with them.

“You may trust her, Geralt,” he’d said, “and I trust you, but it’s not that simple. She’s not part of this.”

“You might as well make me a part of it now,” Yennefer had purred. “I intend to make Geralt tell me all the sordid details anyway.”

Back in the present, Ironwood threw up his hands. “Oh, good,” he said sarcastically. “You’re _aware_. Fantastic. Are you going to _do_ anything? Tighten security, maybe? _Not let this happen again_?”

“I assure you, I have no intention of letting this happen again,” said Ozpin, his voice still perfectly level. “But this is not Atlas, General. We cannot solve our problems simply by throwing more men at them.”

“It’s starting to look like you can’t solve your problems at all,” Ironwood growled. “This—”

Geralt stepped forward. “Calm down, Ironwood,” he said sharply. “Shouting isn’t going to get a damn thing done.”

Ironwood swallowed and slowly unclenched his fists. “You’re right,” he said grimly. “But _something_ has to be done.”

“Agreed,” said Glynda. “We need to know what _happened_. We should talk to Miss Rose, as soon as possible.”

“Not tonight,” Ozpin said, in a voice that brooked no argument. “She has had more than enough excitement for one night. We can speak to her in the morning, once she’s had time to calm herself and her team.”

Ironwood let out a low growl, visibly containing his anger. “Ozpin,” he said, his voice tight. “The CCT was just infiltrated. The enemy had direct access to the largest information network in the world. And you want to delay finding out more so that one girl can get a good night’s sleep?”

“What do you propose we do, General?” Ozpin asked. “We can’t do much until tomorrow anyway. There is no reason to disturb Miss Rose’s night any more than it already has been.”

Ironwood shook his head. “We could _plan_ ,” he said. “We could figure out what we want to do in the morning! The faster we act, the better.”

“We know the basics of what happened,” Geralt put in. “A woman snuck into the CCT, disabling the guards on the way. She was hiding when Ruby arrived, so we don’t know whether Ruby interrupted her in the middle of something. Then she fled when you arrived.”

“But we have no idea what she was after!” Ironwood said, rounding on him. “And without that, how can we plan a countermeasure?”

“You think Ruby would know what the infiltrator wanted?” Geralt asked, raising his eyebrows. “More to the point, you think she wouldn’t have already told us if she did? She’s not an idiot, Ironwood.”

The General sagged. “That’s a fair point,” he admitted.

“We can certainly call Miss Rose in the morning,” Ozpin said. “A good night’s sleep may even help her make connections or conclusions which may be helpful. But for now, we should work with what we know.”

“That’s not much to work with,” Glynda said, shaking her head. “The best we can do is increase security and set your cyberwarfare division to find out what she wanted, James. I don’t see many other options.”

“That will be a start, at least,” said Ozpin. “One thing is clear, however. Our concerns about the Vytal Festival as a potential target were clearly well-founded. The White Fang’s recent activities, a rampaging mech in downtown Vale, and now this? Something is stirring.”

Geralt blinked. “What’s this about a mech in downtown Vale?” he asked.

Ozpin glanced at him. “Oh, you were away on your mission with Team CVFY,” he said. “Team RWBY was involved in a… scuffle… with a stolen Atlesian Paladin.”

Geralt blinked slowly. “Oh. What’s a Paladin?”

“The newest model of Atlesian mech,” Ironwood said grimly. “It can be manually or remotely piloted. It hadn’t only just been _announced_ when this happened. They have a source inside Atlas.”

“A source capable of transporting several hundred tons of military equipment from Atlas to a warehouse in southern Vale without being detected,” said Ozpin coolly. “General, when you set your cyberwarfare division on the CCT, I want you to be absolutely certain you trust every person on the job.”

“You know I will, Ozpin.”

“Good.” Ozpin sighed. “And we _must_ decide on a candidate to take up poor Amber’s mantle. As soon as possible.”

“You know my feelings,” said Ironwood evenly. “Let me bring in an Atlesian Specialist. Winter Schnee—”

“Would be a perfect fit for an entirely different Maidenhood,” said Ozpin evenly. “Besides which, that would leave us with two Atlesian Maidens.”

“The Great War _is_ over, Oz,” said Ironwood reproachfully. “We’re allies, remember?”

“Yes. And I’d like to keep it that way.” Ozpin’s voice was firm. “I believe I have a couple of candidates who may well be suited to the mantle. I just need a few more days to think before I make my decision.”

“You’re the expert,” Ironwood sighed. “But we also need to increase security. Just say the word and I can double the military garrison—”

“And set every Grimm on the continent to watching us?” Ozpin asked dryly. “No. A subtler hand is needed here. I will call back my agents, all that I can spare. Every Huntsman I can contact will be in Vale by the time of the festival.”

“That’s not enough, Oz.”

“It’s not all I’ll do.” Ozpin glanced at Geralt. “How would you say your students are coming along, Geralt?”

“They’re not ready for a war, if that’s what you’re asking,” Geralt said flatly.

“No,” said Ozpin sadly. “But I fear it shan’t be long before they have to fight one. Are they at least ready for a skirmish?”

“Depends. What’s your plan?”

“We need more information on the enemy’s movements,” said Ozpin grimly. “The students’ training missions are coming up in less than two weeks.”

“You plan to send the students into this?” Glynda asked sharply.

“They will be with trained Huntsmen,” Ozpin replied. “And it’s not as though I’m sending them into the most dangerous areas. But we need all hands on deck, Glynda, and this is the best way to achieve that without alerting the general populace that something is wrong. We _cannot afford paranoia_. Not now. Whoever these people are, whatever they want, whether or not they are working with Salem… a Grimm incursion can only help their plans.”

“Unless it kills them too,” Ironwood said dryly.

“I doubt any of us are that lucky,” Glynda murmured.

* * *

 

“Well,” Yennefer said, as Geralt shut the door to their bedroom behind them. “I must say, I felt rather out of my depth back there.”

“Sorry,” he said. “There wasn’t really time to catch you up on everything. There’s time now, if you want.”

He turned to face her. She was already out of her dress. Her nude body practically glimmered in the moonlight filtering in from the window. “Hmm, let me think,” she said, putting a hand to her chin coyly. “No, I don’t think I need to hear about it right at this moment, Geralt. I’d much rather put you to work at something else.”

Geralt sighed, a faint grin coming to his lips. “Really? Now?”

“What?” she asked. “Are you not interested?”

He growled and began fiddling with his shirt. “No, I’m definitely interested. But what brought this on?”

“What can I say?” she asked, stepping forward to help him out of his clothes. “I enjoy a man who gives a damn.”

* * *

 

“You promised me details,” Yang said, slipping into the chair across from him. “I know things are busy, what with everything that happened last night, but…”

Geralt nodded, pushing his notes on the half-finished Grimm Oil aside. “It’s fine,” he said. “I did promise.”

“So?” Yang asked, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling. “What do you know about my—about Raven?”

“I met one of her people on my mission with Team CFVY,” he said.

“One of… her people?”

Geralt considered her for a moment. “Your mother’s a bandit chief, Yang.”

Yang froze. “What?”

“A bandit chief,” Geralt repeated. “She’s leader of a group that calls themselves the Branwen Clan.”

The blood was rapidly drainjing from Yang’s face. “Now way,” she whispered looking sick. “I mean, I knew she had to be _some_ kind of screwed up, to drop me like that, but a _bandit_?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Geralt said. “The man I met, Zielon, knew his way around monsters. He was hunting the Leshen that CVFY and I were after.”

Yang didn’t move, didn’t answer. She just watched him.

“I don’t know much more than that,” Geralt admitted. “I know the tribe’s somewhere on Anima, but that’s about it.”

“Anima…” Yang closed her eyes pensively. “You said the guy knew his way around monsters. Was he a Witcher?”

“Not quite that well-trained,” Geralt said. “And no mutagens. But he was the closest I’ve found to a Witcher, around here.”

Yang took a deep breath. “If Raven’s tribe know their way around monsters,” she said slowly, “could they have saved Mom?”

Geralt considered that. “It’s possible,” he conceded. “Bit of a conclusion to jump to, though. Knowing how to fight a leshen is different from knowing how to recognize an incubus. There’s no guarantee they know anything about those.”

“This guy,” Yang said, and Geralt noticed her eyes were ruby-red. “He could track, yeah? Would have had to, to fight a leshen.”

“Yeah,” Geralt admitted. “Yeah, he could track.”

Yang stood up. “And she didn’t,” she said softly. “She didn’t bother.”

“You don’t know the details, Yang,” he reminded her.

“I know enough.” She was shaking. “It wasn’t enough that she had to abandon me as a baby; she couldn’t even be bothered to help the woman who was _actually_ a mother to me? Her own _teammate_?”

Geralt stood up. “Yang,” he said gently. “Don’t blow up my office.”

Yang swallowed. “Yeah.” Her red eyes met his. “Want to spar?”

Geralt thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “Let me get my swords.”

* * *

 

“So,” he said through heavy gasps of air. “What are you going to do?”

They were seated on a bench outside the sparring ring. Yang was drinking deeply of her water bottle. Geralt himself had already emptied one waterskin and was working on the stopper of the second.

With a relieved sound, Yang pulled away from her bottle and looked at him. “Do?” she asked.

He nodded. “About Raven.”

“For now, nothing,” Yang said with a shrug. “I can’t just drop everything and hop on a boat to Anima. Ruby needs me. Blake and Weiss, too. And I never saw myself as the dropout type.”

“But once the semester ends?”

She shrugged. “If I can, yeah. I’d like to go looking. But… honestly, I don’t know if I even _want_ to know any more.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Yang nodded. “I used to wonder,” she said quietly. “What could make someone abandon her daughter before her first birthday? What kind of person does that? Now I know.” She bared her teeth, her eyes flaring red. “The same kind that leaves their teammate with an incubus for twelve years, and leaves her ex to care for two daughters alone.”

“She probably didn’t know Summer was alive,” Geralt pointed out.

“But she _could have_ ,” said Yang flatly. “She could have tracked her to wherever you found her. She could have _tried_. She didn’t.” She leaned back against the bench, looking up at the ceiling. “And that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it? That’s the only reason she left me, too. Probably. She could have tried, and she didn’t.” She looked over at him. “Caring for someone isn’t easy,” she said. “My dad mostly shut down after Mom disappeared. I had to take care of Ruby mostly by myself. I know it’s not easy.” She chuckled dryly. “Turns out eight-year-old me was a better mother than my birth mom ever was, and that’s all it comes down to.”

“I’d have thought you’d want revenge,” Geralt admitted. “Or at least some more concrete closure.”

“Oh, I _do_ ,” Yang said, and her voice was fervent. “I really, really do. I want to hold that bitch down and punch her until her bleeds. But that’s not _important_ , you know?” She sighed. “She left me because she had _something better to do_ than care about me, or about Mom. I’m not leaving Ruby, or my teammates, in the same way. I’m _better_ than her.”

Geralt considered her for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “You are.” He stood up. “Ready to go another round?”

She grinned and took his offered hand. “You know it. I won’t go easy on you this time!”

“Good. Maybe it’ll be an actual challenge.”

“Oh, I am going to make you _eat those words_.” Her grin was positively wolfish as she vaulted over the barrier and into the ring. “I wonder _Xiao Long_ it’ll take you to go flying this time?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re not funny,” he told her flatly.

“Liar,” she said, grinning, and charged.

**Author's Note:**

> I will be posting this story first in half-chapter chunks at my account on the Spacebattles forums. These 2,500-word chunks will be rougher and intended for debate and critique. Once two of those go up, I will take a day to consider what has been said, make edits, and then post the final 5,000-word chapter both here and at the ffnet mirror, as well as reposting the final version on Spacebattles. Keeping this in mind, feel free to read on whichever site you prefer.
> 
> In the original Spacebattles version of this chapter, there was some discussion about Coco. She was originally written as much more bitter about Geralt’s use of Aard in the lecture, and generally less pleasant. I decided to clarify matters with minor edits to her dialogue, expressions, and a single added line to Geralt’s stream of consciousness.
> 
> As with all my works, comments and kudos are appreciated but not demanded.


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